


Unbreakable

by seedee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Elves, F/F, Hardboiled Detective, Humiliation, Mystery, Sexual Content, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seedee/pseuds/seedee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why do elves keep dying? What's the secret of the striving elf agency? Where is Pixy? What do you wear to a Halloween party if your host is Millicent Bulstrode? Hermione's profession is to find answers; and she has the cloak to prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbreakable

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to ridicu_liz, tree00faery and thimble_kiss for their help.

Chapter One

In the end, there was no hope.

Herman held on as long as possible. He performed his duties as was expected until the pain in his chest became unbearable. It burned like a living flame, eating him from the inside out, easing only when he stopped fighting.

The rope slithered through his hands, the rough surface something to concentrate on as he manipulated its form with practised ease.

Mitty felt the same kind of pain. It was Herman's fault because he'd asked her to risk it. He'd told her to be strong for the three of them. He'd promised to find a way.

"My magic is strong," he had said. "I will protect you."

Bitter tears threatened to fall down his face while his hands fastened the noose around his neck. He'd stopped fighting. There was no hope. The last bit of his strength, he used to send a message. "I is sorry," he told her, and he knew that she was listening no matter how many miles were between them.

The rope tightened and lifted him off the floor, using his own magic to destroy him. "I is sorry," he whispered.

Then he closed his eyes.

**

A blank envelope lay on the doormat in front of Hermione's office. She scowled at it, knowing from experience that unlabelled envelopes meant trouble. She'd yet to encounter one that contained money, or an invitation to a book reading, or maybe even tickets for a jazz concert.

A charm revealed no curses or hexes, and she bent down to pick it up. Her stomach, still full from lunch, protested.

Envelope in one hand, a bag half full of left-over curry in the other, she banged her knee against the door. A small sign was attached to the wall: _Hermione Granger - Research_. The door swung open, and Pixy, Hermione's assistant, took the bag from her.

"Hey Pix, did you see who left this?" Hermione asked, shrugging out of her long cloak.

Pixy shook her head. "No," she said.

A one-word reply was unusual. Hermione regarded Pixy, but as there was no further response, she walked over to her chair and sat down.

Her desk, small and unassuming, was crammed into a corner of the office, which was otherwise occupied by rows of bookshelves, stacks of newspapers, and an enormous filing cabinet that bowed under the weight of her investigative research. Pixy's elf-sized desk, a comfy sofa and a tiny coffee table had found some space as well.

It was early afternoon, and magical lights flickered on the walls. The room would have been dark and gloomy without them. Even in the midst of summer, this part of Knockturn Alley was rarely a cheerful place. At the end of October, it was downright bleak.

Hermione opened the envelope. She found two pieces of paper within: a torn-out Daily Prophet advertisement and a Ministry report.

The report bore the signature of the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Isabel MacFarlan. It described the alleged suicide of four house-elves. While the facts, traces and witnesses all seemed to prove the conclusion - four unrelated suicides with no extraneous influence - not one elf seemed to have had a motive.

The second piece of paper, the advertisement, announced in bold and flashing letters the new address of the elf agency. With growing suspicion, Hermione read that the agency had moved from an office in her vicinity to Diagon Alley where prices were notoriously high.

What was the connection between the report and the advertisement? Why had those elves killed themselves, or had they? And why in the name of lukewarm curry could the agency afford a location like this?

Hermione caught herself compiling a list of people she needed to talk to, places she had to visit, and things she should research. There went her holiday. After the centaur case that had been taking all her energy and time for more than five weeks, she'd wanted to get some rest, do some reading and relax a little. She barely kept herself from snorting.

She checked the envelope again. Why was there no note from the sender, nothing that told her where to dig? Was the sender involved? Was someone afraid to be the next victim?

"Pix? Where do we have the file about the agency?"

Pixy bounced up from her chair, her large ears bobbing up and down with the movement. She headed over to the filing cabinet, tapped one of the drawers and waited for the rattling noise to stop. Then she opened the drawer, took out a file and brought it over to Hermione's table. "This is everything we has."

Hermione took the file. It wasn't as thick as she'd hoped. "Thank you. Are you sure you didn't see who left the envelope on the door-step?"

"Yes," Pixy said.

"Did you hear anything? Did you notice anything else?"

"No?" Pixy said. It was a tentative question rather than an answer, and Pixy was shifting her weight from one sneaker-clad foot to the other, tugging at her ears.

"There wasn't anything that made you think it was an elf?"

Pixy coughed and hopped once. "No?" she said.

Hermione sighed. "We need to teach you how to lie."

"I doesn't lie," Pixy said, just as unconvincing.

"No, you don't." Hermione offered one of Molly Weasley's biscuits. "Not really." She took one for herself and chewed thoughtfully. "Did you recognise the elf?"

Pixy shook her head. There was so much conviction behind the movement that Hermione was sure she was telling the truth.

**

Hermione left the office early, and yet she was almost too late. She hurried down the street to the closest public Floo as fast as possible without having to run. The continuous drizzle and cold wind would have made her shiver if the lining of her long leather cloak hadn't been charmed to keep her cool in summer, warm in winter and dry in the rain.

The cloak was her working uniform, made from supple Hippogriff leather. It had been given to her as the payment for her first job almost a decade earlier.

"A profession such as yours requires a cloak, young lady," the Hippogriff breeder, whom she'd helped to keep his animals and his business, had said. "Wear it with respect, and you will be respected in turn." There had been a twinkle in the man's eyes as he'd handed over the heavy piece of clothing.

The cloak had served her well ever since, forcing her through its weight to stand up straight, changing her appearance in a way that gave her more credibility and confidence. Charmed with a variety of spells, two bottomless pockets that held a few dozen of George's special products, and her treasured old DA Galleon that was sewn into the lining above her heart, the cloak wasn't just a fashion statement; it was pretty damn useful.

She reached the Leaky Cauldron three minutes before five o'clock, hoping she wouldn't have to fight her way to the front of a queue. Some people - in her experience - didn't like that, no matter the emergency.

The trip went without problems, something Hermione could appreciate. She'd learnt to treasure the little things; the big ones never turned out well without interference. She stepped out of the Floo in the Ministry entrance hall at four minutes past five o'clock, just in time to spot Percy Weasley push open the door to the Portation Room that would take him to a destination of his choice. Hermione muttered a quiet curse and started to run.

"Percy," she called. "Wait for me. I need to talk to you."

Percy hesitated, looked back over his shoulder, and then stepped through the door.

Hermione didn't call again. She saved her breath and increased her speed. She reached the door a split second before it closed. It flew open under the impact of her momentum and propelled her into the room. Then it bounced against the wall, fell shut, and a moment later they were in the middle of Percy's flat.

"Was that really necessary?" Percy said.

"I could ask the same thing," she said. "Don't tell me you didn't see me." She poked his shoulder. Percy scowled.

He took a step backward, almost tripping over an expensive black chair. "Of course I saw you. I'm not blind." He pushed up his glasses. "The last time you waited for me after work, a werewolf nearly tore me apart. And the time before that, I ended up neck deep in some potion dealer conspiracy - it's _still_ in my personal record, in case you were wondering. And the time before _that_ -"

"Stop whining," Hermione interrupted. "Quit your job, and I'll ask your successor. Until then, we'll both have to deal with you being the Head of Internal Affairs."

"Do you know anyone who'd want my job?"

Hermione poked him again, but far more gently. "You love your job."

Percy muttered something Hermione didn't catch. She watched him go into the kitchen and come back a couple of minutes later with two cups, a pot full of hot water, tea leaves and instant coffee. They sat down at the table, each preparing their own beverage of choice. The scent of tea and coffee mingled to a rich aroma before Percy spoke.

"House-elves," he said.

"That's why I like you," Hermione answered. From her pocket, she took out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill. "What do you know?"

Percy took a sip from his tea, making a face when the hot water came in contact with his lips. "What do _you_ know?"

"Not sure if I have the patience to play games," Hermione said. "There are four dead elves: a Hogwarts-elf, a Ministry-elf, and two house-elves from respectable families." Hermione said 'respectable' with the same infliction she'd use for 'mucopurulent'. "All elves were registered, and all killed themselves with no apparent reason within the last six weeks. They weren't particularly young or old or related, or had anything else in common that is obvious enough to be noticed. The Ministry doesn't think it's worthy of an Auror investigation."

Percy thought before he spoke. "You know the drill. There needs to be substantial evidence to justify an Auror investigation. In this case, it's the decision of the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. MacFarlan doesn't think there's more to it."

"You talked to her?"

"I saw the report and asked her about it. She wasn't eager to talk."

"Big surprise," Hermione said. She took a sip from her coffee and grimaced at the bitterness. "What about the agency?"

Percy raised his eyebrows. "What about them?"

Hermione shrugged and summoned the sugar from the kitchen counter. She put some into her cup, stirred, then answered. "I've heard they're doing well lately. They moved to Diagon Alley." She let the statement linger, prompting Percy without leading him into a distinct direction.

"The business picked up speed. It's high time, if you ask me. They've been trying for years to improve the elves' situation." He glanced sideways at Hermione. "You don't trust them."

"Think, Percy. A spoilt girl from a rich family does everything she can to help free elves find jobs. She offers counselling for any elf who needs it. She gains trust because what she does seems to be," Hermione made air-quotes, "honourable. A couple of years, nothing much happens. And then _boom_ ," Hermione balled her hands into fists and then spread her fingers wide, "there she goes. She employs people, moves to Diagon Alley, and no one knows where all the freed house-elves come from, just as no one knows why there are suddenly so many people willing to pay for their service." Hermione huffed out a breath. "Doesn't that seem a little strange to you?"

Percy pushed up his glasses. "Boom? She's been one of the biggest supporters of the elf movement from the start. She's made a lot of enemies. She's campaigned for years within the Ministry. She's one of the reasons why we have the new laws."

"Oh come on, Percy. It was the Minister who adopted the laws."

"Maybe," Percy said. "But with half of the Wizengamot against him, he could never have done it."

Hermione felt her anger rise. "That's exactly what I'm saying. She's surrounded herself with bigoted, narrow-minded people. I don't understand why she's leading the agency. There must be more behind it."

"She's been working hard under constant Ministry monitoring. she has endured years of public ridicule, and now, finally, she's in a place where she really can do something. She's one of the people who's changing our community. I don't think you're being fair."

Hermione couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of her throat. "Life's not fair. That's why it's called life, and not a fair-y tale."

**

After she left Percy's flat, Hermione headed over to the Three Broomsticks. The pub was only a couple of minutes down the street. She was a little late, but not outrageously so. For years, they'd been meeting every other week at the pub. Same place, same time, same people.

It was warm inside and smelled like good food. Most tables were occupied as people fled from the cold, wet October night.

"Ron's not coming?" she asked as she approached the reserved table in the back of the pub.

Harry gulped down a mouthful of ale. "Stuck at work."

"He's going to work himself into the ground one day," Hermione said.

Harry grinned at her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, giving her half a hug. "Look who's talking."

They sat down. The familiar banter made Hermione smile.

They talked about family and friends, about news and gossip. At one point Hermione kicked him under the table as he insisted on asking if there was still no 'girl at her side'. Sometimes he was worse than Molly Weasley - only that she was looking for a suitable man.

When Rosmerta brought the second round of beer - bitter for Harry, butter for Hermione - there was a pause.

They were silent for a long moment before Hermione asked, "What do a Hogwarts-elf, a Ministry-elf and two house-elves have in common?"

Harry squinted at her. "Is that the start of a complicated joke that will make me feel bad for laughing?"

"Probably. But I've not yet figured out the punch line."

"Ah." Harry gave her a knowing smile. "We're working. What have you got?"

"Four dead house-elves."

Harry nearly choked on another gulp of beer. "Four? All dead? Not possible. The Aurors would have heard about it."

"Four suicides. There is evidence and witnesses and no signs of anything but house-elves killing themselves. MacFarlan decided not to bring in the Aurors."

"MacFarlan, huh? Still not your best friend."

"Not really. What do you know?"

"Me? I've heard nothing. Nothing official, no rumours. If people were talking about it, I'd know."

Hermione glowered. "I can't believe that no one is asking questions. Four dead elves. Isn't that at least a little strange?"

"You're going to investigate?"

"Someone has to. Doesn't look like it's going to be you and your Aurors."

Harry nodded. The awkward silence that followed didn't last. They'd been friends for too long.

It was almost eleven when Harry decided it was time to go home.

"Hey, Harry," Hermione called before he left. "That's a nice pair of charmed working boots."

Harry grinned. "Birthday present from Ginny. I've wanted them for ages." His grin faltered. "You'd know that - if you'd been at the party. Work's not the most important thing in the world, you know? Life's too short for that."

Hermione shrugged. "Explain that to my clients," she said, and inwardly, she smiled. "Those are brilliant boots."

**

Hermione sat a little longer in the warm pub, completing her notes before the impressions and details could vanish. She drew random lines between facts, scribbled down possible and impossible connections, and she planned her next steps.

Three things were on top of her agenda. One: She needed to talk to the Minister. The anonymous sender of the report hardly counted as a client, and if she could get the Ministry to approve her investigation, she might have a chance to get paid at least a small sum of money. Two: She needed to talk to the woman who founded and ran the agency. Three: She'd visit as many of the suicide scenes as the time would allow. It was going to be a busy day.

She waved goodbye to Rosmerta and stepped out into the silence of the night. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear, opening up to a myriad of stars. The air was clean and sharp, smelling as if winter was waiting just around the corner. Hermione breathed deeply, deciding to walk down to the gates of Hogwarts and Apparate from there. She'd get her head free and relax her mind before heading home.

Deep in thought, she walked down the empty street. She'd been in her line of business long enough to have been robbed, attacked, ambushed and various other things that most of the time started with someone sneaking up behind her and ended with either something missing, or a part of her body hurting. It made her extra alert, and made her hear the noise behind her at once.

Soft footsteps followed her, tapping a quick rhythm on the hard ground. She walked faster; the footsteps were getting faster as well. She slowed down, and the footsteps did, too. She let her wand glide from the holster in her sleeve down to her hand.

Instead of taking the next step, she shifted her weight and spun around. Whoever had followed her couldn't possibly have vanished in the instant she needed to turn. And yet, there was no one. The street behind her was empty. The footsteps were gone.

**

 

Chapter Two

Annie told Mistress MacFarlan what she had heard this morning.

Mistress asked a lot of questions in a very loud voice. Annie didn't know why Mister Weasley was interested in what happened to elves, why he had started to ask questions, or what he was going to do next. Annie didn't know either, if that 'idiot' of a Minister - and oh, she didn't like hearing that word; he'd always been kind to her - was informed yet.

Miss MacFarlan wasn't a bad mistress. Most of the time.

The little black card Annie had received from a friend felt heavier than it had any right to be in the inner pocket of the tea towel she was wearing.

"Elf!" Mistress MacFarlan's voice was loud enough to make Annie's ears ring.

She jumped. "Yes?" she asked, because she knew Mistress would get even more angry if she stayed silent.

"Stop dreaming. Keep me informed. Stay close to the other elves. I need to know what is happening."

Annie's hand lay on her hip; she could feel the sharp edges of the card beneath her worn towel.

**

The Minister's schedule was always busy. There was no way to come by an appointment on short notice, even for someone who knew the man well and regarded him as a friend. Well, there was no way if one played by the rules.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, for all his dedication and work load, had never been an early riser. Hermione, on the other hand, was. He came through the door into his office, impeccably clad in fine but not too expensive fabric that was tailored to be comfortable and complimentary - and Hermione was already sitting in the visitor chair, smiling at him. She rose when she heard his exasperated sigh and offered her hand.

Kingsley shook both the hand and his head. "She let you in _again_? Why would she do that to me?" he asked loud enough for his assistant to hear.

"Sorry," Ginny Potter called back. "She threatened to tell Harry that I forgot his birthday present. If he knew that Hermione bought the boots for him, I'd never live it down."

Kingsley's face was caught somewhere between a scowl and a smile. "That's all?" he said. "You sell me for a pair of boots?" He closed the door and muttered, "We're going to have a talk about this."

Hermione suppressed a smile. "I won't need much of your time."

Kingsley gestured for her to sit down and walked around his desk. He looked tall and graceful in his robes. Time had etched itself into his face, and Hermione imagined if he didn't shave his head, she'd be able to see his hair getting grey. And yet, he looked full of energy, not getting older, but getting wiser. Eleven years after the end of the war against Voldemort he was still the Minister for Magic - often challenged, but never overpowered. He'd become a true politician, both for the better and for the worse.

"What can I do for you?"

Wordlessly, Hermione handed him a copy of the house-elf suicide report.

Kingsley looked at it, his face betraying not a single emotion. He waited for Hermione to speak.

After a minute of silence that stretched and stretched and grew thick between them, Hermione gave in. "Why is there no investigation?" she asked.

"There was an investigation. This is the result," Kingsley said. "Why don't you ask Isabel MacFarlan? She's the head of the department in charge."

Hermione bit back an insult and kept herself from going into a rant about Isabel MacFarlan and her known disregard for house-elf rights. "Do you agree with this report?" she asked.

"I trust the head of the department." Kingsley's voice was firm, and there was an edge to it. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes. As a concerned citizen and as an Auror consultant, I would like to request a full Auror investigation. This," she pointed at the report, "is a disgrace for the Ministry." As an afterthought, and almost too low for Kingsley to hear, she muttered, "Merlin knows what would happen if the papers got wind of it."

Kingsley's gaze never wavered. "You don't have any rights to request an investigation, neither as a citizen, nor as a consultant." He paused, and Hermione wondered if he'd address her barely concealed threat. She didn't think he'd give her any manpower, but that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted access to the resources of the Ministry - the archive, the library, the elves - she wanted a reason for Percy to help her, and she wanted to be able to show her consultant badge if she needed it.

"I want to know what is going on. Don't you want to know what happened? Fright was a Ministry-elf." Hermione pursed her lips as if thinking. "Wasn't he working for the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures? That's quite a coincidence." Hermione leaned forward. "You know me, Kingsley, I'll poke around with or without an official assignment."

The Minister looked at her steadily with dark searching eyes. Then he nodded once. "Tell Ginny to activate your badge for a week. If you need more time, ask MacFarlan. It'll be her decision."

Hermione was surprised. She'd counted on getting her wish eventually, but she'd prepared for having to invest a lot more effort and pressure.

"You will be on your own," the Minister continued. "But you can work within the frame of an official Ministry investigation." There was a warning in his eyes. "Do not occupy any of our resources. And be discreet. I don't think I have to tell you what kind of trouble this could stir up."

"Thank you, Minister," Hermione said. Stir up trouble, her regularly-exercised bum.

**

Hermione Apparated to Diagon Alley, made a quick detour to the bakery next to Gringotts, and then walked to her office.

The change of scenery was as fascinating as the first time she'd entered this other world that coexisted in the shadow of the reputable shops of Diagon. What had been a question of money at first, had become something she wasn't willing to give up.

Many of the clients who asked her for help were just as out of Galleons as she had been when she'd started her business. Some of them preferred the relative anonymity of the dark alley; some clients were just as shady as the alley itself, not knowing who to turn to when they were in need, sure - and often right in the assumption - that the Ministry and its Aurors weren't interested in helping them.

Hermione had found a niche for herself, a place where she fit in. Somewhere along the way, soon after the war had ended, she'd realised that she didn't possess the patience and political finesse to change abstract concepts and community structures. She wasn't a politician, nor did she ever want to make the compromises it took to become one. Her talent was to get things done with dedicated stubbornness. She was passionate; she was smart; she cared; and no matter what Ron or Harry said, most of the time, she was damn right.

Her door was open for anyone who needed genuine help. She'd worked for house-elves and werewolves, centaurs and giants, witches who needed protection from their husbands, and wizards who needed protection from their wives. She'd worked for Half-bloods, Pure-bloods and Muggle-borns, and, on occasion, for Muggles. She was a private investigator, a research expert, the voice for those who needed to be heard and a link between the Ministry and the community when one was needed. Her clients paid her in Galleons and potions, in food and secrets, in promises and favours, and on one occasion, she'd been paid with a live bunny. Crookshanks hadn't been happy about the new addition, but Roger's irresistible charm had convinced even the old half-Kneazle.

She pushed the door of her office open and waved at Pixy. By all appearances, her assistant had done some cleaning.

"Thanks, Pix," Hermione said, shrugging out of her cloak and hanging it on the rack next to the door.

"Good morning. How is you?"

"Good. I met Ginny. She sends her love and tells you to come over soon. James misses you."

Pixy beamed. "I will bring him pie."

"He'll love it." Hermione blew a strand of wildly curled hair out of her face. "Pix? I need you to tell me something about elf suicide. How common is it? Why do elves do it?"

Pixy sat down on her small swivel chair. "Not common. But it does happen. Sometimes." Pixy nibbled on her lips, kicking her feet. "There is only one kind," Pixy said. "One kind Pixy knows." Hermione noticed that Pixy was talking about herself in the third person. She'd done this when she'd been new at the office, but had gradually lost the habit. She rarely fell back into it.

"What is the reason?" Hermione asked.

"Elf is old, or ill, or has accident and is not useful. An Elf needs to work, you sees. If not, she becomes very, very sad. She stops being elf." The statement was matter of fact, and Hermione understood the reasoning. She'd watched it often in elves that had been freed against their will. She'd seen depression and desperation. Those elves often did any job that was available, no matter how low the payment was. It was slavery under the guise of freedom, and it had thrived after the new laws had been introduced and before there had been a minimum wage.

The four dead elves, though, hadn't been old or ill - and with the exception of Curry from Hogwarts, they hadn't been free either.

"Do you know of any cases where a working, uninjured, middle-aged, healthy elf commits suicide?"

Pixy scrunched up her face in concentration. Then she shook her head, ears drooping. "No. It's like throwing away good food. Master wouldn't want that."

Like good food.

Hermione decided to write Percy an owl and ask him to go through the elf archives in the Ministry library. They needed to know more about recorded suicides in recent years. It would give her an idea of numbers and causes for registered elves.

"Pix. Could a master order an elf to commit suicide?" The thought was horrifying.

"No. It's not possible. Ordering death is like giving clothes. Elf will be free."

That wasn't much, but it was something.

**

The connection between agency and deaths - Hermione had stopped calling them suicides but couldn't justify using the term murder yet - was still unclear. Dead elves and a growing business. What could they have in common? Had the elves approached the agency? Had they refused to be freed, or had they wanted to be freed?

The new laws said that it was neither possible to free an elf against their will, nor to keep a house-elf if they wanted to be free. If they asked for clothes, a master couldn't refuse. Which was a huge step for any elf.

The agency was on the far end of Diagon Alley where it was less busy than in the area around Gringotts and the Leaky Cauldron. The houses were neat and clean and reeked of money. The agency itself had a large window on the ground floor of a three-storey building, and a wizard in bright yellow working robes was busy painting the agency's name in bold, colourful letters, whistling as he worked.

Hermione walked around the building, noticing details like the small back door and the window with the broken latch that opened to a dark side-alley. At this time of day, the wards of the building must be lowered to allow clients to enter. Hermione looked around before she cast a quick disillusionment charm on herself. Then she took a small device out of her pocket, opened the window with a little magic, and attached the brown disc the size of a sickle to the window sill. It instantly changed its colour to the exact same shade as the wood of the sill, invisible for anyone who didn't know what to look for. With another spell, she closed the window, dusted off her hands and walked back to the front of the building.

Still disillusioned, she leaned against the wall of a nearby building. In order to get a sense of the people frequenting a business, it was best to watch the entrance for a while. What people did the venue attract? How many people went inside? Did the clients match its reputation?

An elf left the building a couple of minutes later. She was wearing an enormous bead bracelet on her left wrist. The beads made a merry sound as they rattled and clacked whenever the elf moved. Hermione saw two more elves come and go, and a woman, not much older than herself, entered, stayed for eleven minutes, came back out and hurried down the street.

After almost an hour, Hermione slipped out of sight behind a corner and lifted the spell. She smoothed down the front of her cloak, straightened up and walked toward the agency.

A bell above the door tinkled when she entered.

The entrance room was small and empty. A counter dominated the room. It started at the left wall at around human waist-level and dropped down almost to the floor in a gentle arc. It was cleverly manufactured; both elves and humans could use it without having to stand on tip-toes or crouch. Tailor-made and not at all cheap, Hermione reckoned. She picked up a flier and an information brochure, and risked a look over the counter, trying to read the names on a couple of files that lay there.

"Hermione Granger. What a rare sight. Are you looking for something?"

Hermione froze at the voice. Bugger. She hadn't heard a thing, and she hated being taken by surprise. Mad-Eye Moody would turn in his grave. "Millicent Bulstrode. It's _lovely_ to see you again."

"I'm sure it is."

The amused smirk on Millicent's face made something in Hermione's jaw twitch. She smiled, sure that it looked as fake as it felt, but proud of herself for the effort. "Four house-elves committed suicide."

The smirk slid from Millicent's face, leaving her features bland and uneven. Her lips were thin, her eyes dark, and her forehead broad. She had large and strong-looking hands, one of them lying on the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the red-painted wood. "What does it have to do with me?" The playfulness was gone from her tone. She sounded very business-like.

"House-elves? I'd say a lot." Hermione noticed that Millicent hadn't asked any of the obvious questions: who, what, when, where, why. "What can you tell me about it?"

"Nothing," Millicent answered. "Get out."

Hermione blinked. "That's it? Aren't you interested in helping? I thought this was some kind of charity organisation that does nothing but save elves. And while we're at it, would you tell me where the sudden wealth comes from?"

"Get. Out." Millicent spoke through clenched teeth. "You'll use everything I say against me. So why don't you find out for yourself? The Prophet will be delighted to let you back onto the front page with another hero story." With a flick of Millicent's wand the door behind Hermione opened.

Hermione took a step backwards. "Suit yourself. But don't think your arrogance will protect you this time." She turned on the spot and stalked out of the agency, muttering a curse that had nothing to with magic. In a small corner of her mind, a quiet voice suggested that she could have been a little more diplomatic. The rest of her sneered the voice into silence.

**

The estate of the Nott family was north of Hogsmeade. A narrow, impeccably clean path led through an ivory gate, overgrown with rich red roses. Money oozed out of every corner, even before the old, majestic building came in sight.

The sun was shining, birds were chirping, flowers were blossoming despite it being bloody October, and the house itself looked resilient and huge without having lost the welcoming character of a home. The windows on the upper level stood open; laughter from inside drifted down. Hermione scowled and pulled her cloak shut as if to shield herself against an overdose of picture postcard panorama.

The door opened before she had the chance to knock.

The woman was tall and attractive, somewhere in her late forties. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, salt and pepper strands escaping at the sides. She wore an apron and what looked suspiciously like jeans and a t-shirt underneath. Her round cheeks and kind smile reminded her more of Molly Weasley than of Narcissa Malfoy. It wasn't at all what Hermione had expected.

"I'm not surprised to see you here," the woman said. She offered her hand. "I'm Mora Nott. Come inside."

Hermione took the hand and returned the firm grip. "Hermione Granger. Why aren't you surprised?" The smile she received was unsettling.

Mora shrugged and made it look elegant instead of dismissive. "Call it a hunch." There was an amused quality to her tone.

Mora led her to a small room that had been designed to greet visitors. Heavy rugs and expensive tapestry formed the background for a comfortable seating area and a voluminous fire place. There was no need to bend one's head or crouch when Flooing here.

Hermione was offered a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. She accepted both and sat down, waiting for Mora to join her. The house-elf who brought the tea wore a tea-towel, she noticed. It was fancy, beautifully crafted with colourful embroidery, but it was still a tea-towel. Like Herman, who'd died in this house and had been found with a noose around his neck, dangling from the ceiling in the utility room, the elf that served the tea wasn't free.

"Ask your questions," Mora said.

Hermione tasted her tea. It was rich and strong with only a hint of honey. She took out her notebook and gathered her thoughts before she began.

According to Mora Nott, it had been a day as any other. Herman had prepared breakfast, and then gone about his daily duties. Both elves, Herman and Libby - the elf who'd served tea earlier - had been free to split tasks however they wanted to.

Nothing out of the ordinary had happened until Libby had found Herman in the utility room. He'd been dead. Mora had helped Libby to take Herman down. Then they'd waited until her husband had come home, and then they'd alerted the Ministry.

End of story. At least for Herman.

"Would you mind if I asked Libby a few questions?"

Mora frowned, an expression that looked alien on her face. She considered the request, and then said, "Yes. I mind."

"I'm trying to find out what happened, Mrs. Nott," Hermione said

"I know, dear." Mora said. "I have talked to Libby. She doesn't know anything. She's very distraught and confused, and I don't want her to become even more upset."

Why would a few questions upset Libby? Even if, why would that be more important for Mora Nott than knowing what had happened to Herman? Was she afraid of the answers?

Hermione made her good-byes, deciding not to apply pressure without having more information. So far, Mora Nott had been more or less cooperative; it wasn't clever to shut that door so early and without good reason.

If she accidentally lost one of her business cards behind a large vase where only a cleaning elf would look, it wasn't her fault. That could have happened to anyone.

**

Another family was on her list. Emil and Caroline Beauparlants. The name sounded like another headache-inducing conversation. Hermione leafed through the file Pixy had prepared, looked up the address and Apparated back to Diagon Alley. They lived in a small side street not far away from the shops. The building where their flat was couldn't be more different from the Notts' estate. And yet, it, too, smelled like old money.

It was one of the modern buildings: clean lines, hard angles, lots of steel. They were rare in the Wizarding world, but they existed.

Emil Beauparlants was working as a diplomat for the Ministry of Magic. His housemaid was the only one home, and she told Hermione that Mr. and Mrs. Beauparlants currently were in Italy, representing the Minister for Magic at an important conference about international laws.

After being persistent - or annoying, depending on the viewpoint - the housemaid told Hermione that she'd only started working for the Beauparlants. She couldn't tell her anything about Mitty, the former house-elf. She'd never known her.

Was it a coincidence that Beauparlants worked for the Ministry? Was it a coincidence that he was out of the country?

**

It was three in the afternoon, and Hermione was already worn out. She'd talked to Kingsley, had been at the office, had visited the agency, the Notts and the Beauparlants. While she'd gathered a few bits and pieces of information, she didn't feel any wiser.

Something about Millicent Bulstrode and her elf agency was fishy. It smelled as pleasant as two-week old unchilled dead trout. She couldn't ask the Aurors for help without further evidence, and she obviously couldn't count on Millicent's collaboration. Hermione decided to go back to the only person who'd be able to do something at this point.

Percy was in his office, his door half open. Hermione knocked on the frame and entered when he peered up at her from behind a file.

"Do you have any more information for me?" she asked by way of greeting.

"Not yet," Percy answered. "I'll let you know when I've talked to some of the other elves. I received your letter and requested registration files from the archive. They should arrive this afternoon."

Hermione nodded. "Thanks, Percy. I need those numbers as soon as possible. Maybe they'll tell us something."

Percy gave Hermione a resigned look. "I'll go through them this evening. I'll be at your office tomorrow morning and give you an update."

"You're a star." Hermione sat down on the visitor side of Percy's clean desk. The papers and utensils must have been aligned with a water level and an angled blade. "I need a favour."

"Who would have thought? What do you want this time?"

"I want you to step on Bulstrode's toes. Make her nervous with some investigation committee or regulation thing, or whatever you always pull out of your perfectly ironed sleeve."

"No," Percy answered.

"I spoke to her this morning. She's hiding something."

"No," Percy said again in that same calm tone.

Hermione made a deliberate effort to keep her voice down. Percy had her removed from his office the last time she'd shouted at him. Which had led to the security guard touching her in inappropriate places. Which had led her to hex him. Which had led him to arrest her. Which had led to Harry having to intervene and get her out of a holding cell. It had been a mess. "Bulstrode is somehow involved in the suicides," Hermione said. "The anonymous letter, the suspicious behaviour. She's as innocent as your mother when she's trying to set you up with _a lovely girl_."

Percy closed the file with a snap and put it on the table. It sat there, perfectly straight. "She's been working hard for years, despite your efforts to throw as many obstacles in her way as you can. She's doing it despite her social circle's disapproval. She's doing it despite the Ministry monitoring each of her steps. We never found anything that would let us doubt her intentions, her business practices or her sincerity. Stop it, Hermione. It's enough."

"It's an act," Hermione said, giving up on keeping calm. "Don't you see it? This elf friendly endeavour is one big illusion. It's fake!" Even as she said it, Hermione realised that without any evidence, the words sounded silly.

"You're so caught up in your own fight that you don't recognise your allies," Percy said, calm as ever.

Hermione threw a piece of balled up parchment at him. "I'll find a way to prove it." She got up from the chair and turned toward the door.

"Hermione, if you don't stop harassing her, I'm going to step on _your_ toes. I know just enough of your methods to make life uncomfortable for you."

Percy was going to report her methods? Well, then she'd better make sure that he'd have a story to tell.

**

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when she returned to her office - enough time to prepare herself, go through what she'd found out and do some research.

"Hey Pix," she greeted her smiling assistant. "Would you mind getting us something to eat? I'm starving."

Pixy was out of the door before Hermione could discuss what kind of food they should have.

"Overachiever," she muttered.

Hermione looked at the information Pixy had collected in her absence. There was an update on elf laws, various articles and WWN pieces about the agency, the work of other elf-related groups, and a lot of bits and pieces that didn't want to fit into a neat pattern. When Pixy came back, they ate in silence, both lost in thought. Hermione sent her assistant home when the evening turned into night. Pixy protested - she always did - but Hermione stayed firm.

With the help of what she'd seen in the morning, Hermione worked out a plan, prepared charms, looked up helpful spells and pocketed some of her special Wheezes. It was after midnight when she finally decided to leave.

Knockturn Alley was sinister during the day; in the middle of the night, it was downright dangerous. She wasn't truly afraid. After ten years of working in the same office, most people had accepted that leaving her alone was far less trouble for everyone involved. However, there was always the possibility of meeting someone who was too drunk to recognise her, too foreign to know her reputation, or too arrogant to take her seriously. That's why she Apparated into the small alley behind Millicent's agency.

From her pocket she took a small brown disc, similar to the one she'd left on the window sill earlier that day. It had taken George and her months to develop the device. It was a spell disabling system; George called it the spell and curse buster, or, far more frequently, the sac-buster. Within a small range, the two discs could detect, identify and disable most spells that were active between them.

Hermione used the sac-buster - she grinned a little and blamed bad influence from too many Weasleys - to disable the wards. They crumbled within minutes. A few more spells confirmed that the wards were down, that no other security measures were in place, and that no one was in the building. The window was too small for her to climb through, so Hermione went around to the front door. It didn't take long to circumvent the locking mechanism.

Hermione cast more spells, looking for some kind of security trap. Her magical scans showed nothing. She frowned. It was one thing to have a temporary security solution because of moving into new premises, but another thing altogether to leave oneself open to attacks.

Hermione didn't waste time searching the room with the counter where she'd talked to Millicent. If there was anything to hide, they wouldn't leave it in the entrance area for any old burglar to find.

In the dim light of her glowing wand, she saw two doors leading out from the small lobby. The first one opened to what looked like a consultation room. Inside was a sitting area with chairs in various sizes and a table full of brochures. Where the lobby was modern and clean, this room seemed far warmer and homelier. But Hermione wasn't there to admire the interior decoration. She closed the door and moved back into the lobby, her movements muffled by a nifty charm.

The hint of a sound, as muffled as her own footsteps, made her freeze on the spot. When she didn't see anything, she put out the light of her wand and listened with closed eyes. Long moments passed, and there was nothing but her own heartbeat drumming a too fast rhythm in her chest. She didn't dare light up the whole room, and she didn't dare cast her own wards, fearing that potent magic could trigger some kind of back-up security system.

After what felt like a very long time, she relaxed, convinced that she must have misheard. No one had been in the building when she entered - her spell had confirmed that - and if anyone had entered in the meantime, she'd have heard it. Or so she told herself, knowing that it wasn't quite that easy but hoping for the best. What else was there to do?

She relit the tip of her wand.

Behind the second door, there was a large room with various desks. There were boxes strewn around the room and shelves leaning against the wall, waiting for someone to hang them up.

Only one of the workplaces looked finished. There was a big desk on which documents were neatly stacked in piles. A shelf on the wall behind it carried more files, and there were two cabinets on either side. The desk was close to the fireplace at the window, and whoever sat there could keep an eye on the door. If that hadn't been enough hints, there was also a big name plate that said in bold, dark letters, simple and clear, 'Millie'.

Hermione went over and lifted the plate. Brass. How tacky.

When she set the plate back down, she noticed files lying on Millicent's desk. Careful not to bump into anything, Hermione walked around the desk. There were three files with three names on them: Herman, the name of the Nott house-elf, Mitty from Beauparlants, and Fright, the name of the Ministry-elf who had committed suicide. No file about Curry, the fourth elf, who had worked for Hogwarts.

"Yeah, Percy," Hermione muttered, imitating his voice. "We never found anything that would let us doubt her intentions, her business practices or her sincerity."

Hermione made duplicates of the files. Then she shrank them and put them away in one of her pockets. She'd look at them once she was in a place where she couldn't get arrested.

There were two main filing cabinets to go through. With gloved hands, Hermione searched as thoroughly as possible while trying to be quick. There was nothing more of interest.

**

 

Chapter Three

"How did you find us?"

"I heard Frame outside the office. You keeps watch."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you knows what happens. You needs to tell Miss Hermione. She can help."

"No."

"Please tell her. She is able to stop it."

"She cannot stop it. Do you not understand? It is too dangerous for them. The more questions she asks, the more will die. We are helping ourselves."

"Then I tells her what I know. She will help."

"We cannot let you go if you tell her. Do not betray us. I warn you."

"I doesn't betray you. I will help. I will tell."

"You will not."

**

Hermione was tired when she returned to her flat in the early hours of the morning. She opened the door, turned on the lights, pulled off her cloak and shoes, and then went over to her sofa. A very sleepy Crookshanks climbed onto her lap. He demanded to have his ears scratched.

The first time she'd broken into someone's home, long ago, it had been a matter of life and death. She'd torn herself apart for weeks, wondering whether she had crossed a line when she'd committed a crime in order to solve one.

Of course, she had crossed a line. She'd done so every time she'd entered a building uninvited, threatened an individual to obtain information or used lies and deception to reach her goals. Every time she'd crossed the line, her reasons had been important and there had been lives and fates on her side of the equation. And every time she'd crossed the line, it had become a little easier.

Was she proud of it? No. Did she think it was necessary? Hell, yes. If she was going to be judged for it one day, she'd wait for the verdict with her chin up.

Hermione took one duplicated file and opened it. It looked like a standard consultation report, containing a profile of Herman, Mora Nott's elf, some notes about the conversation, and a date that looked like a scheduled second visit that had never happened. They'd talked mainly about the laws, about what would happen if Herman asked for clothes, what he could do then, whether it would be possible to remain at Nott's house and what would happen to Libby, the other elf. His sister.

Hermione hadn't known that Herman had been Libby's brother. She read that they'd been born into the Nott's family and had lived and worked together their whole lives. Hermione's heart ached for Libby who must be devastated. Was that the reason why Mora Nott hadn't let her talk to Libby?

Hermione closed the file and leaned back against her comfy sofa. She had a nagging feeling that she was missing something important. If only she wasn't too damn tired to see it.

What were the facts?

One: The wards. They had been made to look competent on first glance. They'd felt decent, and yet she'd dismantled them with ease. She'd become an expert over the years, sure, but was she really that good? Would a woman who'd started an elf agency in Knockturn Alley with a Quidditch field full of adversaries become careless once she moved to a better neighbourhood?

Two: Where had the second line of defence been? No triggered hexes, no invisible barriers, no sound or magic detectors. It had been harder to break into Diagon Alley's main library that one time.

Three: The files. Would someone who was under regular Ministry surveillance leave potentially compromising files out in the open? Just like that? Why had they been there in the first place? Shouldn't Millicent have tried to get rid of them as soon as possible?

Four: Variables. What about something unforeseen, something Hermione hadn't expected? There were always unknowns that couldn't be predicted. This time there had been nothing out of the ordinary that would have forced Hermione to react and adjust her plan.

Five: Someone had watched her. There was nothing logical to lead her to the conclusion except for the noise she'd heard and the feeling in her gut.

Hermione sighed and scratched Crookshanks behind his furry ears. "It was a set-up, wasn't it?" She closed her eyes and imagined how wonderful it would be to go to sleep. "I played right into someone's hands. Son of a troll."

Crookshanks snorted.

"If you tell Harry that I stumbled around like a first year Auror, you won't get fillet for at least a week." With super-human effort, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. "And if you tell Ron that I talk to cats, I'll let Roger use your litter box."

It was almost two o'clock, still the middle of the night. No one would be in the agency before six, she hoped. She could squeeze in two hours of sleep before checking whether her suspicion was correct. She cast a charm that would wake her up in time, sank back against the cushions, turned off the lights, closed her eyes and was instantly unconscious.

Two hours later, her wand made a shrill noise and woke her up from a dreamless sleep. She made a pathetic whining sound as she got up and put her boots and cloak back on. She went into the bathroom without turning on the lights, moving through her flat in the dark in case someone was watching from outside. Sometimes she wished she'd taken Professor McGonagall's offer and started working at Hogwarts as a teacher. Would anyone really miss those teenagers she'd have killed over the years?

She disillusioned herself before she Apparated into the dark alley behind the agency.

Once again she activated the brown disc and its counterpart and waited.

Nothing happened.

Those weren't the same wards as those she'd disabled earlier. Those were strong ones. They held. Someone must have been there and replaced the fake ones that had gone back up after she'd turned off the discs on her first try.

"You think you're so much smarter than I am," she muttered. She had a grudging kind of respect for people who outmanoeuvred her. "That's one point for you. But don't think you can fool me a second time."

Someone had lowered the wards far enough to make it easy for her to slip through. The important questions being: who and why. The vengeful part of her mind, the part that remembered being bullied in school, was sure it was some elaborate plot from Millicent to distract her from finding out what was happening. The rest of her mind, the part that earned money by being reasonable and neutral, was still caught in a state of _what-the-sodding-hippogriff_.

What now? Go in and wait for Millicent? Go in and look through the files again? Go in and set the building on fire just because? After some deliberation, Hermione decided to break in and wait for Millicent.

If she ended up in a cell, she could point to her Ministry badge and ask Harry for a huge favour. It wouldn't be the first time. Besides, Hermione was far too old to play school games, and far too impatient to wait and see what would happen. There was also that nagging feeling in her gut that told her to hurry before more elves lost their lives.

Disabling the wards turned out to be complicated. She was muttering a string of complaints under her breath as she identified the nature of the protective magic.

There was an intricate pattern of interwoven spells surrounding the whole building. It was smooth and elastic, and Hermione admired the beauty in the spell-work. She concentrated on the lines, and then took them apart one by one, unravelling dozens of magical knots. She kept the discs activated. They didn't help her with the wards, but they caught a few nasty hexes and stunning spells that were triggered by her actions.

It took the better part of an hour to take down the wards, open the door, and disable a cleverly disguised trap that Hermione was sure hadn't been there earlier. All those security measures could have only been set by the owner herself.

Once she was inside, Hermione cancelled the disillusionment charm and settled down in the chair behind the counter to wait. She put her feet on the lower part of the counter, cast a shield charm to protect herself in case brass-plate-Millie would have any objections regarding her presence, and then fell asleep.

**

The jingle of the door bell woke her up what felt like only a minute later. A very angry looking Millicent was standing in front of her with a drawn wand.

"What the hell?" Millicent said.

"Good morning. How are you?" Hermione said in the most cheerful voice she could muster.

"Give me one reason not to call the Aurors right now." Millicent made it sound like there were far more hissable syllables in that sentence than a proper pronunciation would suggest.

"I'll give you two," Hermione said, lifted her feet off the counter as it seemed rude not to, and got up. "This is an official Ministry investigation. The Aurors wouldn't so much as laugh at you." She was stretching the truth. But Hermione didn't think Millicent knew that. "And you wanted me here in the first place to collect all that lovely information you laid out for me. If you'd wanted to turn me over to the Aurors, you'd have called them when I was here and let them catch me red-handed."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Millicent said. She was a good actress.

"I'm sure you don't. Now why don't you give me one good reason why _I_ shouldn't call the Aurors, tell them what happened tonight and let them snoop around your place for a while."

Millicent made a sound that couldn't decide if it wanted to be a laugh or a snort. "You've done that so often in the last years that even the Aurors are sick of your calls. They wouldn't so much as laugh at you."

Touché. Hermione scowled.

They stared at each other in tense silence until Millicent let out a breath. "Let's talk business," she said. "And for Merlin's sake, lower that shield, I won't hex you. It doesn't look as if it's going to protect you from a punch in the face."

That was true. Hermione flicked her wand, and the shield collapsed. "What business?"

"At least four elves are dead, three of them came to talk to me, and I have no idea how many more there are. They refuse to talk to me about it, even my own employees. There's something serious going on." She scrunched up her nose. "That's why I sent you an anonymous letter. Salazar only knows how long it would have taken for you to catch up on your own."

"You lied to me," Hermione said.

Millicent gave her an annoyed look. "If that's your only concern, then we can stop this talk right here."

"Do go on," Hermione said. "I'm dying with curiosity. You were explaining the part where you sent an anonymous letter including your own business ad. And why, when I came to talk to you, you threw me out. And there's the thing where you wanted me to break into your business and find your files. Is this the point where things will start to make sense? Because I might need a few more pointers to get there."

Millicent walked through the door that led to her office and came back a minute later without her purse and coat, and with two steaming cups. How had she done that so fast? "I need coffee before I can deal with all your Gryffindor righteousness," she said. "Follow me."

Hermione didn't like taking orders. Nevertheless she followed Millicent into the nice room with the big table, and they sat down together like civilized people. She sipped from her coffee. It was acceptable. Belatedly she realised that she hadn't checked for spells or potions. Mad-Eye must be nauseous from all the spinning he was doing in his grave. "What is going on here?"

"I don't know." The look on Millicent's face made something in Hermione's jaw twitch. Millicent looked sad, and more importantly, she looked sincere. What in the name of soul-saving coffee was going on? After a few moments, Millicent continued. "Let me ask you a question. What would have happened if I'd come to your office and asked for your help."

Hermione took a sip of coffee.

What would have happened? Crimes against house-elves, a Ministry report Millicent shouldn't have, the history between them, the people surrounding Millicent, the agency's sudden wealth, the mere fact that Millicent Bulstrode was dedicating her time to helping elves. Instead of launching into an investigation, Hermione would have wasted time trying to figure out what Millicent might want from her beside the obvious. Investigator, know thy enemy. Especially when your enemy is your own weakness.

Could Millicent know her well enough to make this a plausible theory? Could the woman be bright enough to set her up like this, starting an investigation without ever approaching her? Feed her information, using her own methods against her? Letting her break in to make everything look as authentic as possibly?

Hermione eyed her. "You lousy snake," she said.

"I didn't think you'd catch on so fast."

"Convince me." Hermione took another sip from her coffee. The sheer gall. "I'm not convinced that you're on my side of this case."

Millicent looked at her without flinching. "I don't have to convince you. Without me, there wouldn't even be a 'your side' of this case. I've heard you're a good investigator. But you're a thick-headed beast." Millicent gestured at herself. "I got over myself years ago. Time for you to grow up, too."

"But why?" Maybe there was something in the coffee after all. Why else would this make sense? Why else would she start to believe Millicent? Surely not because of her pretty eyes. Though there were kind of attractive, deep and dark and in the head of a shameless manipulator. Hermione glared. "Why house-elves?"

"That's your real question, isn't it? You want to know why someone like me cares for them."

Hermione wasn't going to admit a thing. "I mainly want to know where the money comes from."

"No, you don't. But you know what? If you can't be bothered to find out for yourself, I'm not going to enlighten you." Millicent drank down half of her coffee in one go. "Work with me. I want to stop whoever is doing this."

Hermione considered it. She was already neck-deep in this investigation, and she had no intention of stopping before the crime was solved. Did she believe Millicent? Hermione wasn't sure. Did it matter whether she believed her? Hermione didn't think so. Until proven innocent, Millicent remained a suspect.

The cup was empty when Hermione looked up. She'd made her decision. "I'm not going to work with you," she said. "I'm going to work _for_ you. You're going to pay me. Once this is over and you're not in Azkaban, I'll send you an invoice with all my hours, expenses and travel costs. Then you'll hand over a reasonable amount of Galleons. Before that happens, you'll provide any information that's relevant for the case and you'll collaborate to the best of your abilities." Hermione put down her cup. Then she asked, "Is that clear?"

Millicent raised her thick eyebrows. "Do you need me to tremble in fear or is my word good enough?"

**

Hermione came to her office far later than usual. They had discussed every detail Millicent claimed to know about the dead elves, about their relationships, about their owners, about the circumstances of their deaths. It was disappointingly little. Hermione had in turn shared most of the results of her investigations. She'd kept a few secrets. One can never be too paranoid.

Percy was already waiting for her. He had a bag with what looked like muffins in his hands and glared at the door.

"Where's Pix?" Hermione asked.

"Left a note," he answered, waving a small piece of parchment. "Says she's sick."

That was a first. Pixy had never been sick before.

It was cold and gloomy inside the office. Hermione lit the candles and magical lights. She was too impatient to use anything but magic to warm up the air.

Percy put the bag on the small table. Hermione shrugged out of her cloak, grabbed the bag, opened it and moaned as she plopped down on the sofa. "You're an angel," she said. "A red-haired, bespectacled, freckled and glowering angel, but an angel nonetheless."

She picked a muffin that was covered in thick frosting and looked like it hid blueberries somewhere inside. It tasted heavenly.

"Long night?" Percy asked, and she grunted something non-committal in return. There was no need to tell him about her new client yet. There were few things worse than a gloating Weasley. He sat down next to her. "I've gone through the old files. I think you'll be interested."

"I know I am." Hermione took another bite of muffin, ignoring the crumbs that landed on the front of her shirt. "What have you got?"

"Mitty and Herman weren't the first elves who died," he said.

"Yeah, they were." Hermione remembered the Ministry report. "Mitty and Herman died on the same day. Two weeks later, Fright from the Ministry died, and the last one was Curry, the Hogwarts-elf."

Percy shook his head. "That's not what I meant."

He paused, and Hermione started dreading the next sentences; she suspected where it was going. "You're not going to tell me there have been more than four deaths? Please? Not when I'm having breakfast?"

Percy held out a piece of parchment. "I found another four registered suicides of young, healthy house-elves within the last five years."

"Oh Merlin," Hermione muttered. She took the parchment and read through the summarised reports. How could eight elves die without anyone asking a few questions? And again, there was no obvious connection. Only one thing stood out. "Don't you think it's strange that all of those elves killed themselves in the same way?"

Percy rubbed his eyes. "No, I don't think so. It's logical."

"What do you mean?"

"There aren't many ways in which an elf would commit suicide. It's always going to be clean. A house-elf won't leave a mess, so anything involving blood is out of the question. The elf won't want to _waste_ anything that belongs to the master, like a potion. The elf can't ask other elves for help; killing an elf is a punishable offence. Hanging is the most common way for an elf to commit suicide."

Hermione wished for only a second that she had never ended her infamous affair with Hannah Abbott. The woman had known that there were times when a drink for breakfast was not only an option but a necessity. She put the half-eaten muffin down on the table. Her hunger had disappeared.

**

It was almost noon when Hermione pulled on her cloak and headed out into the surprisingly bright October day. She blinked at the sudden light, momentarily blinded and almost tripping over a small hooded figure. The goblin or elf scurried away; a strange rattling sound followed it.

As she walked to the Leaky Cauldron and its public Floo, Hermione asked herself again why young, healthy elves were committing suicide. Had they really taken their own lives? Had someone killed them? How did Curry, the Hogwarts-elf, fit into the picture?

At the Leaky, she asked Tom to send Pixy some soup and wrote a quick note telling her to stay at home as long as she needed. Then she made a Floo call to Hogwarts. Minerva was in her office and asked Hermione to come through once she heard Curry's name.

Hermione was hardly out of the Floo when a small elf started batting at her clothes, getting rid of residual powder and ash. "Good to see you again, Mel. How have you been?" Hermione said.

Mel was a young elf, eager to please and with a sunny disposition. That's how Hermione knew her. Now, Mel's eyes were sad, and her smile looked forced. "I is doing well," she said. "No working in the kitchen any more. I is cleaning now."

"Oh really?" Hermione said. Mel was zealous and smart, but had a talent for knocking things down. The bigger the pot, the better. "And do you like your new work?"

"Of course," Mel said. It didn't sound convincing.

Hermione had hardly finished the thought when Minerva spoke. "Welcome, Hermione."

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said. Minerva had given up on trying to get her to address her by first name. There was no way Hermione would ever be able to drop the title. Hogwarts' headmistress was one of the few people who had earned it, deserved it and lived it.

"Sit down."

Hermione sat down on one of the chairs. "Is Mel alright?" she asked the headmistress.

"I believe she is still a little shaken; all of us are," said Minerva. "It's been almost two weeks since Curry died." There was a moment when Hermione could see pain flashing across Minerva's face. She recognised it for what it was: being tired of losing yet another friend.

"I'm sorry, professor," Hermione said.

"Yes, I am as well." Minerva poured both of them a cup of tea. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here as an Auror consultant. There are some open questions, and I was asked to investigate."

Minerva peered at Hermione through her spectacles as if she knew exactly that this was a loose interpretation of the truth. "We reported Curry's death immediately," Minerva said. "A representative from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was here. We told him everything we know."

"Yes," Hermione said. "I saw the report. I'm not here because of it. I'm here because there was more than one death, and they all look similar."

"More than one?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "We have four dead elves in the last six weeks and four more in the last five years."

"Eight dead elves?" Minerva looked shocked. "I didn't think..." Her voice trailed away. "Curry committed suicide."

"They all did. Or so it would look if there was only one case. But so many? It's too much of a coincidence," Hermione said. "Did you find anything at all that made you doubt it was a suicide? Were there any traces of anyone else involved?"

Minerva shook her head. "Professor Slughorn gathered all available information and came to the conclusion that it was suicide. The cause of her death was self-inflicted. We have no reason to believe otherwise."

"Do you know how exactly it happened?"

Minerva nodded. "We reconstructed what she must have done. She went into a little chamber next to the kitchens. Curry fastened a rope to one of the beams that run across the ceiling. She stepped onto a stool, put the sling around her neck, and then stepped off the stool."

"No magic?" Hermione asked.

"No magic," Minerva confirmed.

That was interesting. Mitty, Herman and Fright had killed themselves without the help of a stool. According to the Ministry report, all three of them had fastened the rope to the ceiling by magic, and then used some kind of spell to tighten the rope and pull themselves up. It had been proven that they'd used their own magic. Was it significant that Curry had used a variation of the same method?

"Did you talk to the other elves?" Hermione asked. "I couldn't find a possible reason for a suicide in the report."

"We talked to them, of course." Minerva took a sip from her tea. "Her friends among the staff wouldn't reveal any relevant information. We never found out why she would have killed herself."

"What did Curry do exactly?"

"She cleaned," Minerva said. "Mostly down in the dungeons and some of the professors' rooms."

It wasn't much. Hermione needed more if she wanted this to make sense. "Would you let me talk to the elves?"

"Naturally. You should also talk to Professor Slughorn; he examined the body." Minerva lifted her hand, and the filing cabinet behind the desk opened. A small stack of leather-bound parchment floated out and landed smoothly in front of Hermione who tried not to stare at the casual display of wandless magic. "This is everything we found out. You are welcome to take it with you. Mel will take you to Professor Slughorn and then to Timi, Curry's best friend."

"Thank you, Professor, I'll return it when the investigations are finished," she said and shrank the parchment.

"Yes, please. I do not have a copy and would like to keep it in our records."

"How many suicides have there been in the history of Hogwarts?" Hermione asked.

"Among the elves?" Minerva said. "Only one that I know of." Her mouth was a thin line; her frown deepened. "Hogwarts has always taken care of its elves. We were the first who offered clothes to every elf in combination with a work guarantee. I have gone through a century worth of extensive records. A suicide would have been mentioned."

"I'm sorry, professor," Hermione said. She hadn't meant to offend.

"Don't be sorry. Keep asking questions. It's necessary."

Hermione did as she was told and asked some more, but Minerva didn't seem to know anything that could help her.

"I'll do my best to find out what happened," Hermione said and then excused herself.

Mel led her down to the dungeons.

They found Horace Slughorn in the Hogwarts potion lab, preparing a lesson for the following day. His face lit up when he spotted Hermione. It made her smile in return.

"Hermione Granger," he said in his usual booming voice. "What a wonderful surprise."

Slughorn didn't move away from his cauldron, so Hermione came closer. She peered inside and saw a black, tar-like substance bubbling. "I'm sorry for interrupting. I shouldn't have come unannounced."

"Not at all, not at all. Take a seat," he said and nodded at a high chair that stood at the short side of the worktable. "I'm afraid I can't leave this alone right now. I'll do my best to help with whatever you need, though. How have you been?"

"Busy," Hermione said. She sat down on the chair, awkwardly balancing her weight, her legs too short to reach the floor. She hated those kinds of stools and wished she'd remained standing. "I'm here to talk about Curry."

"Ah, the elf," Slughorn said. His voice was less cheerful and the corners of his mouth curved downward. "What a tragedy." He sighed.

"What can you tell me about her death?" Hermione asked.

"One of the other elves found her late in the afternoon. She killed herself in a little chamber where we store pumpkin juice. The elf alerted the headmistress, and Minerva asked me to examine the body."

"What did you find?"

Slughorn was slowly stirring the tar-like potion. It smelled heavy, like old, dirty cloth. "She'd not taken any potions, and there were no signs of a spell, a struggle, and no signs of anyone else involved. As far as I can tell, she did everything herself."

"Did you know her?"

"Who, the elf?" Slughorn frowned. "Not very well."

"Professor McGonagall told me she was cleaning the dungeons."

"That's true," Slughorn said.

"And you didn't know her?"

"How many of the elves who cleaned your dorm did you know in the seven years you've lived here?"

Six years, Hermione thought. He was right, though. Elves were as good as invisible when they wanted to be.

"Professor McGonagall gave me her file on the case. I assume you're familiar with it?" she asked.

Slughorn looked surprised. "Why yes," he said.

"Does the file contain a report of your examination?"

"Yes. You'll find everything I know in the report. Is there a reason why you're investigating?"

Hermione shrugged. "Just some routine questions. It's something the Ministry has to do."

"Why didn't they send an Auror?" Slughorn asked.

"Aurors?" Hermione flashed him a conspiratorial smile. "They're too expensive. They're needed for the real cases." The lies came easily. She waved at him. "Thank you, Horace. I think that's all I need to know." Maybe it was rude to cut the conversation short. But Hermione had never grown fond of the old potions professor, who was still weaving his contact net like a big fat spider whenever he got the chance. The longer she stayed, the more advances she'd have to ward off; it was tiresome.

He smiled. "I hope it helps. You're welcome to come back any time if you need more support." His smile widened. "Or if you would like to come to one of our meetings. We have some guests from Durmstrang here next month. Are you sure you aren't interested?"

There he went. Hermione lifted her hand and waved at him on her way out.

"I brings you to the kitchens," Mel said. She'd waited for Hermione outside the lab.

On the way to the kitchen, Mel told her she'd known Curry only by name. She said she didn't know why Curry would have wanted to 'stop working forever', as Mel called it.

**

It had been a long time since Hermione had last seen the kitchens. She remembered coming here to visit Dobby and Winky. Merlin. Those were memories from another life.

Dobby had never lived to see the changes in the Wizarding world. His story – Harry had told it to everyone who'd listened – had helped to change their culture. Dobby was a hero. He was an inspiration. He'd made history and had been left behind.

Hermione missed him.

At lunchtime the kitchens were a busy place. Elves were preparing food, running around with pots and bowls, each of them wearing a white apron over colourful clothes. Hermione gasped in surprise when she spotted and recognised an old knitted, slightly lopsided hat.

"Excuse me, Miss," an elf said, levitating a huge bowl full of potatoes and pushing past her.

Hermione stepped back, trying not to stand in the way, her stomach growling at the wonderful smells.

She watched the elves for a couple of minutes. Why were they ignoring her? They hadn't greeted her; they weren't even looking at her. They hadn't asked her if she wanted something to eat or drink.

Hermione nudged Mel. "Did Curry have family here?"

"No family," Mel said.

"Where did she come from?" Hermione asked.

Mel shook her head. "I is not knowing. She was already being here when I was coming to Hogwarts." Hermione watched her skip a step and hop. She frowned.

"Where's her friend Timi?"

Mel tugged at Hermione's cloak. "Follow me," she said and walked down the length of the first big table. There were four of them, mirroring the four tables in the Great Hall of Hogwarts where the students were seated during their meals.

They crossed the huge room and then entered another one that was packed with elves and stoves, heat rising from filled pans and pots, the air steamy.

Mel pointed to an elf, smaller and thinner than the others. "Timi," she said. "Curry's best friend."

"Thank you, Mel." Hermione went over to Timi who was expertly handling a knife that looked too big for his hands. "Hello Timi, I'm Hermione Granger. I'd like to talk to you."

Timi looked up from his carrots, his hands never stopping their movements. His eyes went wide for a moment, and then he quickly looked back at his carrots. "I am busy," he said.

Hermione was taken aback. She didn't remember any elf ever responding in such a way. "It won't take long," she said. "The headmistress knows that I'm here."

Timi dismembered another carrot with precise cuts and then put the knife down a little too hard. He wiped his hands, talking quietly to the elf next to him. As he stepped away, his neighbour took his place. "Please come," Timi said. "It is too crowded here."

They went into a small chamber filled with numerous crates and bottles. Hermione looked around and realised that those she could see were all labelled 'pumpkin juice'. She looked up and spotted wooden beams across the ceiling. Was this the place where it had happened? She shivered.

"What do you want to talk about?" Timi asked.

"I'd like to talk about Curry. How well did you know her?"

Timi flinched at the name. He looked at the floor. "We were friends," he said.

"How long have you known her?"

"She came here three years ago. We have been friends ever since."

"Do you know where she came from?" Hermione asked.

"She never said."

The conversation reminded Hermione of pulling teeth: dragging and painful. "Have you noticed anything before she died? Or maybe after she died?"

"No," Timi said.

"Can you think of any reason why she would have killed herself?"

Timi flinched again. "No," he said.

"Timi, is there anything you know that could help me understand what happened? Anything at all?"

Timi shook his head.

Hermione let out a breath. It was frustrating. "Is there anyone else you would rather talk to?"

"No," Timi said.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake. This is the place where she died, isn't it?"

Timi nodded, still looking at the floor.

"Talk to me, Timi, please."

Timi looked up at her. His big eyes were unsettling. "It will not make her come back."

Hermione took one of his hands and squeezed it. "No, it won't. But it'll help to stop it. I can help others."

Timi pulled his hand back. "No," he said. "There is nothing I can tell you." Then he vanished, using his elfish magic to disappear and end the conversation.

**

Outside the sun was shining without much strength but with a lot of enthusiasm. The icy wind already smelled like winter. Hermione decided to walk to Hogsmeade and take some time to sort through her thoughts.

With the tips of her fingers, she felt the leather-bound booklet Minerva had given her. Maybe there was something inside that could help her, something of importance that the headmistress hadn't seen because she hadn't known what to look for.

Hermione passed the gates and stepped into the quiet street that led up to Hogsmeade. The village was almost empty at this time of day when no Hogwarts students were on their way up to the main street where the shops were located. The wind picked up, ruffling the trees and sending the last stubborn leaves to the ground. She pulled her hands out of her pockets to hug herself. The gesture was more instinct than reaction to the temperature as her cloak kept her warm and dry.

The growing noise of the wind was the first thing Hermione noticed. It seemed unnatural and out of place. She furrowed her brow and looked around, using her hands to keep her hair out of her eyes. In hindsight, had she not done that, she'd maybe got to her wand a second earlier. That second would have been all she'd needed to stop the summoning charm that suddenly ripped Minerva's booklet out of her pocket with violent force.

Hermione whipped around, but the noise of the wind had become deafening and prevented her from hearing the attacker. Leaves were kept in the air by a controlled gust of wind; they made it almost impossible to spot whoever just stole the important information. "No," she cried, casting a spell of her own, trying to summon the book back.

There was movement, and she turned toward it, squinting as tears started to form from the icy breeze.

She was too late. A cloaked figure, the size of a child, disappeared, and with it, the noise and the wind.

"Come back!" she shouted, knowing that it was silly to do so, but unable to manage her frustration in any other way. "Come back right now!"

There was no reaction, just the leaves falling down to the ground now that the wind was gone. They seemed to mock her.

She remembered Minerva's words. There was no copy of the report.

**

Minutes later, Hermione appeared in Knockturn Alley. The thief had been an elf, that much was certain. But who? Not many knew about the booklet, even less knew that Minerva had given it to Hermione. Either someone from Hogwarts or someone with contacts in Hogwarts must have stolen it.

Why had they stolen it? Had Minerva collected information that could lead to whoever was behind the crime? What exactly was the crime? Hermione wished she had given in to her curiosity and taken the bloody booklet to an empty classroom, reading it right then and there. Too late for that.

An elf was waiting in the unlit office, bathed in shadows. The face was obscured by a hood that fell down almost to the nose. Hermione didn't recognise the elf, not at first. She stopped in the open door, somewhere between wary and curious.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," the elf said in an unfamiliar voice, and yet, Hermione thought that she'd seen her before. Her gaze fell to the outstretched hand. She recognised the small white paper rectangle. It was her business card.

"Libby," Hermione said. She stepped inside, closed the door and lit the candles around the room with a spell. "What can I do for you?"

Libby seemed to shrink further into the chair, as if trying to disappear. "You wanted to talk to Libby." She sounded timid but firm, like someone who was terrified and willing to risk the consequences of her choices.

Hermione took a minute to settle down on the sofa. "I do, yes. Is there something you can tell me?"

Libby hesitated. "Yes."

Hermione waited a long moment, but Libby didn't seem to know where to start. "I know that Herman was your brother. I'm so sorry."

Libby lifted her head, and for the first time, Hermione was able to see her eyes. They looked sad and hollow. "Libby misses him."

"It must be hard for you," Hermione said.

"Libby is still living," she said.

"Would you talk about what happened?"

"It's why Libby came. Mistress doesn't know."

"I won't tell anyone."

Libby shook her head. "It's not a secret. Herman was brave. Libby can be brave, too." Then she added, "Miss Granger needs to break it."

"What do I need to break?"

Libby opened her mouth but then flinched. "It's the wrong question."

Hermione frowned. What did that mean? "Did your brother take his own life?" she asked.

There was a soft sound proceeding the answer. "He took the rope and made the noose. He put it around his neck and magicked it so-" Libby couldn't finish the sentence; her voice broke. She gestured with her small fist, pulling an invisible rope from her neck up over her head.

"I understand," Hermione said.

Libby rubbed her eyes. "He didn't take his own life," she said. "He did not kill himself. He wanted to live."

"What makes you think that?"

A sad smile appeared, and it almost reached her hollow eyes. "He was in love," she said. "He wanted to be free. He wanted to have free elfling."

Free elfling? Oh no. Oh Merlin. Hermione took one of Molly's home-made biscuits. "He was going to be a father?"

Libby nodded. Then she said, "Mitty wanted to be free, too. They wanted their own family."

Hermione took another biscuit. "Mitty from Beauparlants," she said. Was that the connection?

"Mitty was so nice to Herman. She was good."

"Do you know what happened?" Hermione asked.

"Libby knows." She broke off and sniffled.

Hermione leaned forward and took Libby's hand. "Tell me what you know."

All in one breath, Libby said, "They didn't want to die, and they wanted to be free and happy, and they planned to ask for freedom, and masters needed to grant it because of the new law that says no elf has to be un-free if elf doesn't want to; and before they asked they were sent to-" Libby gasped and her eyes widened. She clutched at her chest. "And then, when they were dead, I was sent."

"What's wrong, Libby?" Hermione watched the elf in mounting confusion and worry. "Where did they send you?"

But Libby didn't listen. She got up from her chair.

"Libby needs to go now."

"Wait," Hermione called. "Herman and Mitty, where did they meet?" Maybe a change of topic would calm Libby down.

Libby was shaking from head to toe, but she seemed determined to talk. "They met at the parties. Libby needs to go-" Her voice broke again.

"Which parties?"

"Madame Millicent's parties," Libby said. Then she added, "Miss Granger must break it."

Before Hermione could ask her what she meant or ask her for more information about the parties, Libby disappeared.

Hermione stared at the spot where the elf had been. What had just happened? Why the sudden departure? Who had sent Mitty and Herman whereto before they died? And what had happened there?

Hermione could hardly follow Libby and barge into Nott's house and demand to see her. Maybe Harry could come with her in the morning. Someone with an Auror badge should be able to arrange an official conversation even without Mora Nott's agreement.

**

It was a busy day for Diagon Alley. Witches and wizards were out and about, doing their daily business, shopping and preparing for Halloween which was only a day away. There were pumpkins and lanterns and costumes, bags full of food and baskets full of decoration for celebrations and parties.

Hermione had an invitation, too, but in the light of current events, she wasn't so sure if she was going to make it. Her friends wouldn't be surprised. Work had a bad habit of being unmindful of her private life.

She found Millicent behind the counter of the agency, looking surly. There was a deep crease between her eyes, and her lips were set in a thin line, making her dominant jaw look even bigger. The woman was no pixy. Even sitting, she looked tall and strong. She'd grown out of trying to hide her bulk, carrying her large, muscled frame with ease and casual confidence. Her hair was pulled back, just long enough to be held by a rubber band. A few strands had escaped and framed her face, softening the edges of her features that were far more interesting than pretty. They were, however, not unattractive at all. Boy, were they not. Good thing that Hermione didn't notice. It wasn't as if she had a thing for surly athletes.

Hermione cleared her throat, pointedly ignoring that Millicent's look had changed from surly to bemused. "How come you didn't mention that Herman wanted to marry?" Hermione frowned. "Or whatever it is that elves do when they are procreating." Once again she realised how little she knew about elves. Her teenage self would have been disappointed.

"Herman wanted to marry? And procreate?" Millicent asked. She pursed her lips. "Mitty?"

"Lucky guess?" Hermione tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"Yes. I saw them together."

"Right," Hermione said. "That wouldn't have been by any chance at one of your parties?"

Millicent put away her quill. "Look who's done her homework," she said.

Hermione tried not to let on that she had no idea what she was talking about. "And you never thought of mentioning this? I dimly remember that our deal was to share all information."

Millicent snorted. "Our deal was to share everything that's relevant for the case." She pointed an accusing finger at Hermione. "And don't think I believe for a second that you've done that."

"Of course, I did," Hermione said. She wouldn't lose any sleep over lying to Millicent. "Why didn't you tell me about Herman and Mitty?"

Millicent got up from her chair. "Because I'm obviously the mastermind behind those terrible murders." She sighed and rubbed at her forehead. "Why don't you start using that brain you're so proud of Granger? What reason could I have to hurt elves? What possible reason could I have to _kill_ elves?"

Hermione scowled right back at her. "I don't know. You tell me."

"Oh for fuck's sake." Millicent wrenched open one of the drawers with a force that rattled the whole cabinet. She took out a small black card and slapped it on the wooden surface of the counter. "It will show you the address tomorrow evening. Bring a costume and an elf."

Hermione took the card and turned it. Both sides were black. "Is that an invitation to one of your parties? What kind of party is it? And why do I need an elf?"

Millicent stood up straight. Hermione didn't need to read her thoughts to see her temper rising and bubbling just under the surface. "It's a Halloween party. Bring a costume and an elf," Millicent said again.

"Right." Hermione pocketed the card. She debated hexing the woman and forcing information out of her. She dismissed it. Maybe the party would bring something up. It was an opportunity she couldn't let pass. "I'll be there."

**

Hermione returned to the office. She was surrounded by files and bits and pieces of information she'd found in the depths of her filing cabinet. Ten years was a long time to file away all kinds of things.

She was trying to puzzle together some sort of elf pedigree when an owl pecked against her window. Hermione got up, stretched and let the bird in.

"Hermes," she said. It was Percy's owl.

She stroked over the back of his feathers, waiting for him to stick out his leg. There was a scroll attached to it. Only a moment after she'd taken it off him, Hermes was back in the air. The clever owl had obviously decided that he wasn't going to get a treat from her.

 _Meet me at my flat. Now. P._

Hermione didn't waste any time; she grabbed her cloak and turned on the spot. She hoped that Percy had lowered his wards.

He had.

She found him sitting at his desk-like table that was the centre of the living room. He was surrounded by paper and files, chewing on his quill.

He looked up when she arrived. "That was fast. Thank you for coming."

Hermione took in some details: slumped shoulders, as if a heavy weight was resting on them, dark circles under his eyes, ink-blackened fingers, two empty bottles of pepper-up potion. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Another house-elf was reported dead," he said. "Another suicide."

Hermione draped her cloak carelessly over the back of the sofa. Percy didn't make a comment, something that spoke volumes about the gravity of the situation. "Anyone I know?"

"I think so," Percy said. "You talked to Mora Nott, didn't you?"

Hermione's stomach dropped. It couldn't be. She nodded.

"Did you meet Libby, Nott's second elf? Mora Nott found her two hours ago. Dead. Killed herself like all the others. Nott informed the Ministry immediately."

"Oh no," Hermione said. Her knees went weak, and she was glad that the sofa was right there to catch her as she sat down. "It can't be. I talked to Libby about," she checked the large clock on the wall, "about five hours ago. She came to my office."

Percy raised his eyebrows. "She came to your office? Did the Notts know about this? They didn't mention it."

Hermione shook her head. She was still processing the news. "No. They didn't know." She leaned back against the sofa and rubbed the palm of her hand over her tired eyes. "What happened?"

"Nott said she found the elf at exactly the same spot where they found Herman. Killed herself in exactly the same way."

But why? Hermione couldn't get past that question. Libby had been there; she'd wanted to help; she'd tried to give her important information.

"Hermione?" Percy asked. He looked concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Hermione said. "I'm alright. Peachy." Merlin. She felt sick. "Did you know she was Herman's sister?"

"That wasn't in the registry," Percy said. "Which is odd. But it's not uncommon that whole families of elves work for the same family."

Hermione snorted. "Work. That makes it sound as if they had a choice. They were slaves, not employees."

"I know," Percy said. "Though, if they want to, they can demand to be freed now."

"Herman wanted to be free. Mitty, the Bauparlants elf, wanted to be free, too. Funny how they're dead now. Libby died directly after she gave me a few details, and she was absolutely certain that her brother didn't kill himself."

"But why?" Percy asked. "Why would someone do that?"

"Maybe someone doesn't want free elves. But why not kill free elves instead of house-elves? Why Herman and Mitty? Who'd gain what from their deaths?" Hermione was thinking aloud. "And what about Libby? Her death might have something to do with what she told me. She didn't tell me all that much, though." And there was another question. Who - beside the Notts - could have known that Libby had come to see Hermione?

"What about Fright from the Ministry and Curry from Hogwarts?" Percy asked.

"I don't know. Curry was a free elf. Maybe she knew something that made her a target. Fright? No idea. He knew something, too? That's a very public secret, if you ask me. We know that he thought about asking for freedom from the transcript of his counselling at the agency."

"You saw the transcripts of the agency? How did you get them?" Percy asked.

"Don't ask. You don't want to know." Hermione saw Percy's suspicious look and sighed. "I came to some sort of understanding with Miss Bulstrode. Seriously. Don't ask."

The corners of Percy's mouth twitched.

"Shut it, Weasley. Question is, why didn't Fright request clothes? The Ministry isn't opposed to freeing elves; it would go against their own laws."

"Theoretically," Percy said. "You know that he worked for MacFarlan, right?"

"Yeah," Hermione said. "Poor thing. Makes you understand why he wanted to be free." Hermione gnawed on her bottom lip. "What's the name of the elf who's working for MacFarlan now?" she asked.

"Annie," Percy said. "Before you ask, I don't think it's a good idea to question her right now. I talked to her earlier. She doesn't know anything, but she's terrified. Looks like MacFarlan ordered her to keep an eye on me."

"Keep an eye on you? Why?" This was getting way too complex.

"MacFarlan doesn't want me to poke around. That's why I wanted you to come here. There are no secrets at the Ministry."

Hermione nodded. "That's one perfect reason to talk to Annie and see what happens."

"Like you did with Libby?" Percy asked.

**

 

Chapter Four

Mel was sitting in her tiny quarters. She stared at her bed where she'd laid out all of her possessions in a neat row. She knew why Curry had taken her life; she knew why Timi was so angry all of the time; and she knew what was expected of her.

She would not do it again.

The family she'd grown up in hadn't been a nice one. The children had been cruel, and her master had never protected her.

She'd asked for clothes. She'd fought for her freedom. She'd come all the way to Hogwarts and started a new, wonderful life. She'd found friends and family. She'd found a home.

Everything she owned fit into a small bag: a few clothes, a toothbrush, a journal she sometimes wrote in, and an ancient teddy bear Curry had given her when she'd arrived at Hogwarts. "So you never feel lonely," Curry had said.

Mel touched the little bear and smoothed back his frayed ears. She'd never felt so lonely in her whole life.

She put the bear in the bag, zipped it closed, and slung it over her small shoulder. Never again would someone force her to do something against her will.

With her head held high, she walked out the front gates of Hogwarts. She didn't know where she was going; she just knew she couldn't stay.

Mel was a free elf.

**

Hermione was awake long before the sun rose above the horizon. She had given up on sleep and was sitting on her work table, surrounded by files, parchment, one snoring rabbit, and one wheezing half-Kneazle.

She'd written a list in red ink:

 _Bulstrode  
MacFarlan  
Nott  
Beauparlants  
Slughorn_

Millicent Bulstrode had talked to three of the dead elves. She had contacts among the elf-possessing families, and she knew far more than she let on. There were mysterious parties, sudden wealth and a person that seemed to be very different from the girl Hermione had known in school. Could people change that much?

Isabel MacFarlan was the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She'd taken over the job from Amos Diggory and seemed to have inherited his dislike for house-elves. She certainly had never gone out of her way to help them. Fright, the dead Ministry-elf had worked for her. Shouldn't she be more interested in solving this puzzle? Or was she trying to protect herself because she was involved?

Mora Nott was just as mysterious. The woman had seemed nice at first. But why hadn't she let Hermione talk to Libby? Where had she sent Herman and Libby before they died?

The Beauparlants' absence was suspicious. But according to the report, they'd also been out of the country when Libby had died. What about their Ministry connection?

Horace Slughorn. He was one of three people who'd known that Minerva had given Hermione the booklet. Only Slughorn, Minerva or Mel could have either leaked the information, or organised the attack. Slughorn seemed most likely. But why?

Hermione needed to work out who had a motive. In order to work out who had a motive, she needed to know what exactly the crime was. Damn.

She wasn't going to find it out all alone in her flat with a snoring bunny draped over her right foot. She gently wiggled her foot free from under Roger. It was time to get dressed and play investigator.

The wind was cool against her cheeks as she left her flat, early morning fog bathing the world in an eerie mist.

She'd walked only a few steps before she spotted the shadow of a tall figure out of the corner of her eyes. Her instinct told her to waste no time and Apparate. Her head told her to stay and gather information. Her heart hoped they were elf-killers and looking for a lesson in free will.

A shake of her wrist made her wand glide from its holster into her hand. There were three people, potentially a forth directly behind her. Amateurs, judging from the way they moved and their inexpert disguise. Hermione drew up the hood of her cloak. The thick, charmed leather would protect everything but her face from anything that wasn't an unforgivable curse.

The shadowy figure came closer. It was a man, and he stepped in front of her, facing her. A spell was blurring his features. She looked directly at him, but she couldn't make out any outlines. It was like looking through murky water.

The others drew closer as well until four men were standing around her in a circle.

"Don't try to Apparate," the one in front of her said. He had a deep voice and spoke without haste. "We set up wards. You will arrive in pieces if you try."

Hermione took a broader stance and centred her weight. She smiled a little while she tried to figure out how she was going to defend herself if all four of them attacked at the same time. No, not all four. One of them would have to keep up the temporary wards. A quick glance showed that the man on the left was chanting under his breath, maintaining the spell.

She could take out the ward maintainer. But she'd need at least two seconds to do it, and those were long enough for the others to throw at least one spell at her. With a little luck they'd all try to curse or hex her directly and hit her cloak instead.

Counting on luck was reserved for desperate situations. It wasn't that bad yet.

"What do you want?" she asked.

The man in front of her seemed to be the chosen spokesperson. "We just want to talk."

"Talk," she said. "Don't waste my time."

A chuckle made his blurry features wobble. "Not wasting your precious time is exactly what we want," he said. "Leave the elves alone, and everyone will be happier."

Oh. It was one of those. That was rather anticlimactic. "Who are you?" she asked.

Again the chuckle. "I'm just someone with an interest in your well-being. Fewer people - and elves - will get hurt if you stop right now. Including yourself."

Hermione gripped her wand tighter. "I can take care of myself," she said. "I suggest you take down those wards, go out of my way and seek help for that delusion problem you seem to be having. For whom did you say you were working?"

She'd watched him and saw the barely noticeable nod.

When using magic, standing in a circle around a chosen victim was pretty damn stupid and another sign that they were amateurs.

As soon as the leader nodded - the signal for his companions to attack - Hermione crouched and cast a shield charm, hoping that there were indeed only anti-Apparition wards, and not wards that would prevent her from using magic altogether. She didn't miscalculate.

The shield went up, a transparent barrier an inch above her skin. She wouldn't be able to hold it and cast an attacking spell, but it would serve her well for surviving the first round.

The circle helped. The second man on her left took out the one standing on her right with what looked like a nasty and painful hex. The man on the right fell to the ground and screamed.

Cheap thugs weren't cost effective.

The speaker shot a stunning spell at her that was deflected by her shield. Hermione kicked with her right foot, throwing the power of her hips into the equation, aiming for his ankle. She hit him squarely, but instead of falling, the man just cried out in pain and took a step backward.

Another spell hit her shield. She couldn't keep that tactic up forever. She leaped to the right, over the writhing body of the thug who'd been taken out by his accomplice and straightened up. One was still chanting, the other two seemed to have figured out that her shield was only good against magic and not physical attack.

That was faster than she'd given them credit for, but it didn't matter. Hermione was ready. She moved her wand in a half circle before her, dropping the shield a moment before she spoke the spell. "Duro," she said, concentrating on making the air itself impenetrable. A wall formed in less than a second between her and her opponents, giving her a moment to breathe.

"Confringo," the leader of the three hollered in his deep voice. The wall exploded with a deafening sound, and Hermione had to use her arm to shield her face from falling stone.

She had barely time to throw herself out of the way of a shouted 'Crucio', her cloak saving her from another stunning spell coming from the other man.

In quick succession she cast two wordless 'Petrificus Totalus' that didn't have any effect whatsoever. Great.

That was the moment when the fist of the one who'd charmed the wards hit her squarely in the face. She screamed in rage.

Her body remembered the long hours when Harry and Ron had showed her their newly acquired Auror combat techniques. Instead of letting herself be thrown back and open herself for attack, she threw her weight forward.

Hermione wasn't very tall, and she wasn't heavy either. But the combined force of her body, her anger, and a strategically lifted knee knocked the man down. She cast another shield over herself. He fell back, his head hitting the ground so hard that Hermione could hear his teeth chattering.

The other two advanced, and she realised that she'd knocked out the ward-holder, which meant she'd be able to Apparate.

Hermione braced herself, rolled off the man, imagined herself standing and conjured up an image of the dark alley behind the agency in her mind.

Then she Apparated.

Instead of arriving with blazing eyes, flying hair and billowing coat, arousing admiration from bystanders, she appeared lying on the cobblestones in a stinking water puddle, blood running out of her nose. She detested having to run. Her nose was throbbing viscously, and her vision was a little blurry. A quick check made sure that the only thing she'd left behind was her dignity.

It took longer to get the smelly, murky water out of her hair, than it took to repair her nose. Hermione wasn't bad at healing magic, but she lacked the patience it took to make it painless. She gritted her teeth and got the job done fast.

**

Hermione swallowed her anger at being attacked and put aside the frustration at having been caught off guard. She pushed her wand up her sleeve with a little more force than strictly necessary and stalked toward the front entrance of the agency. Her cloak was billowing.

Millicent looked up from behind the counter when the door bell jingled. "Are you going to come in every morning now?" She looked at Hermione and frowned. "Did someone punch your nose? It looks," Millicent tilted her head, "bit lopsided."

Hermione glared at her. "I'll let my favourite healer fix it once I have the time to worry about it." She felt another drop of blood trickle out of her nose, and she wiped it away with the sleeve of her cloak. The rough gesture sent white sparks of pain straight into the centre of her brain. She winced.

"Don't be a baby," Millicent said. There wasn't the faintest trace of compassion in her voice. "From what I hear you must have a flat-rate at St. Mungo's."

Hermione snorted; she couldn't help it. "What exactly have you heard?" she asked.

Millicent grinned as she got up. She was still a prime suspect, Hermione reminded herself. Would Millicent underestimate her far enough to send some spineless, brainless thugs? Hermione didn't think so. It was, of course, possible that Millicent had done it so Hermione would come to that very conclusion. "Paranoia, I heart thee," Hermione muttered.

"What?" Millicent was standing directly in front of Hermione, and she hadn't even noticed her coming closer.

"Nothing," Hermione said.

"Hold still." Millicent was taller than Hermione by at least half a head, and she was broader. There was a considerable amount of muscle to her, of the kind that usually came from hard work instead of exercise. Was she shovelling earth in her free time?

The spells directed at Hermione's face were of subtle, soothing magic that felt as if it rearranged the basic structures of her face. How sane was it to give Millicent the perfect opportunity of hexing her, maybe giving her a new face altogether? Would Argus Filch look back at her the next time Hermione looked into a mirror?

She shuddered.

"Not so brave now, huh?" Millicent said between incantations. She touched the tip of Hermione's nose with her wand, and instead of the expected pain, there was only a very mild throbbing. She stepped back and regarded her work. "Not the prettiest I've done, but one of the most accurate."

Hermione scowled. She took out her own wand and tapped the surface of the counter. It rippled, went through the colours of the rainbow, and then reflected her own face back at her. It was slightly swollen, red, and there were still traces of blood. Otherwise it looked fine.

"What happened?" Millicent asked

Hermione described the four men and their ineffective attempt to first threaten and scare her, and then attack her. "You wouldn't know any of them?" she asked when she'd finished the story.

Millicent glared but didn't answer her question. "They don't sound like seasoned criminals," she said. "They sound a lot like desperation."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Hermione said. "Which of course means, I must be right on track. Someone is looking over their shoulder and sees me coming closer."

The conversation was interrupted as the door opened. In came an elf. She was wearing a yellow skirt, a pink woollen jumper and an enormous bead bracelet around her right forearm. The elf greeted them politely. She walked to the counter and opened her big messenger bag that hung low on her hip, the strap across her shoulder. When she moved her hand to take several envelopes out of the bag, the colourful wooden beads clicked against each other, making a very distinct rattling sound. It was a sound Hermione recognised.

Several things fell into place.

Hermione waited until the elf was gone. "Who was that?" she asked.

"That's Frame. She brings the mail," Millicent said, shifting through the envelopes. "The owl office decided to collect regular mail and then send it out with an elf, instead of letting hundreds of owls fly through Diagon. They still let urgent and top secret messages through, but otherwise, an elf comes around twice a day to bring mail to everyone." She sorted the mail into three piles, much like Hermione did it. "Haven't you noticed that it's become less dangerous to go outside?" Millicent smirked. "Then again, maybe you wouldn't notice, what with that nest already on your head."

"Hair insults. Really. Haven't you told me to grow up?"

"What can I say," Millicent said with a smile, "I'm a hypocrite."

The idea was neat. Hermione made a mental note to go to the owl office and ask for an expansion of the service. Dodging stray owl bombs was crap. Literally.

"What do you know about her?" Hermione turned around and watched the elf enter the bakery across the street.

"She was a Ministry-elf before she asked for clothes a couple of months back. I helped her go through the procedure and then helped her find a job."

"Why didn't she stay at the Ministry? Didn't they want to keep her?"

Millicent shook her head. "I don't know. She just said she wanted to leave; I suspect she had trouble with her former master. I usually don't push. They tell me what they want me to tell. Everything else is none of my business."

Hermione huffed. "Yeah. That's the easy way out."

"It has nothing to do with easy," Millicent said. "It has something to do with treating them like adults. They're capable of making their own decisions. That's the whole point of this business."

"Who are you trying to out-holy?"

Frame was coming out of the bakery now, walking down the street. A confrontation didn't seem like a smart idea. Following her wouldn't make much sense as long as she was working and carrying mail around Diagon Alley.

"Why are you interested in her?" Millicent asked.

"I'm not sure how it all fits together, but I've had trouble with elves. One of them stole important information from me. One followed me in Hogsmeade the other day. And I think this one, Frame, was watching my office. I tripped over her yesterday. I heard the sound of the beads. Now I know where I heard it before. I saw her leave your agency two days ago."

"That's a bit weak."

"I know. That's why I'm going to follow her when she's done. Do you have any idea when her shift is over?"

Millicent checked her clock. "She's on time this morning, so I reckon as usual. She told me she delivers mail until eleven, then goes back to the owl office for half an hour. She then goes home for a long lunch and returns some time in the afternoon for her second shift. Don't think there'll be a second shift today. It's Halloween."

Eleven thirty. That would give Hermione a bit over three hours before she had to be at the owl office. "I'll see you at the party," she said and turned toward the door. Before she left, she remembered why she'd come in the first place. She turned back to face Millicent again. "Did you hear about Libby?"

"Libby? Nott's elf? What's with her?"

She watched Millicent's reaction. "Libby killed herself yesterday."

Colour drowned from Millicent's face. She looked shaken. Either Millicent was a good enough actor to perform on stage or she'd really not known. "I had no idea," she said. "Why?"

"That's a very good question," Hermione said. "You should think about becoming an investigator. What with your talents."

Anger replaced the look of sadness, and Millicent's eyes were blazing as she took a step toward Hermione. Her temper was finally getting the best of her. More like anything else that Hermione had seen in the last days, this was a sign that brass-plate-Millie was a real person, and not a fake shell that had been designed to fool unsuspecting investigators.

Hermione decided to leave. One brawl per morning was enough.

**

Lavender opened the door in a long orange bathrobe, her hair twisted around at least a million tiny curlers that were stacked up on her head in neat piles. She wore purple slippers the size and fluffity of large bunnies that looked so comfortable that Hermione's toes started to hurt longingly in her heavy boots.

"Hey," Lavender said. She smiled and gestured for Hermione to come inside. "Aren't you a little early? The party won't start for another ten hours."

Hermione coughed as she entered the little house. "About that," she said.

Lavender's face fell. "Don't tell me you're not coming. Parvati invited her cousin. She's gorgeous."

Hermione ignored the last part and gestured at her hair. "There's no way I'm going to be able to compete with hair that had time to get in shape for ten hours. Where's the point in trying?"

One corner of Lavender's mouth quirked up. "Do it like last year. Wrap yourself up in bandages and be a mummy. Not a strand of hair was visible as far as I remember."

Hermione groaned. "I've sworn never to let Bill help me get dressed again."

"Which is why you're here, I take it."

"What gave it away?" Hermione asked.

"You're wearing your cloak, which means you're working. You know that Ron is at work so you didn't come to talk to him, and you wouldn't have come here for a friendly chat when you're in the middle of a case." Hermione was about to protest but Lavender held up her hand to silence her. "What could you possibly want from a dressmaker on Halloween? You're not the only one who can find answers to obvious questions, you know?"

"You're my hero, Lavender."

"Because I'm going to help you?"

"That, too. But mainly because you still haven't killed Ron after five years of marriage."

"It's been a close call a few times."

"Believe me, I know."

They shared a chuckle and a shoulder nudge that was full of intimate knowledge of the man they both loved. One of them had married him after the other had given him up as her lover and embraced him as her best friend. It had taken a lot of time, patience and fighting in shrill voices to get to the point of accepting each other as different people with different values.

"What do you need?" Lavender asked. She led Hermione to their living room. It was an odd mixture of modern and cosy, old furniture matched with a sparkling white couch that Hermione knew was charmed to remain pristine even when faced with Weasley enthusiasm.

"I need a costume for a fancy party. I don't want to be recognised."

Lavender eyed her from head to toe, probably already taking measures in her head and going through alternatives. When it came to fabric, Lavender was a miracle worker. Her tiny boutique in Diagon Alley was a renowned address not only in Britain.

"What kind of party is it? Who's the host? Who's your date?" Lavender asked as she went over to an old cabinet and opened it. She took out a catalogue with lists upon lists of handwritten inventory. Hermione had seen her consult it before. It wasn't the first time Hermione had asked Lavender to help in a fashion emergency.

Hermione grinned before she answered the question. "Super-secret. Millicent Bulstrode. An elf."

Lavender's smile widened. "My fee is the usual. I'll charge for the materials in Galleons. For my work and considerable expertise at a time when I should do last minute arrangements for my own party, you'll pay me in information. I want to know everything." Her hands were already leafing through the folder until she came to a page that seemed to be what she was looking for.

"You've got yourself a deal, lady," Hermione said. She reached into the depths of her cloak and gave Lavender one of her most treasured possessions. "You know where it goes," she said.

Lavender took it. "You can count on me."

**

Hermione regarded her dark office. The lights were out, the door had been locked and three owls were sitting outside on the window board. Was Pixy still sick? Hermione opened the window and let the owls in. The letters they carried didn't have an answer.

Hermione wrote a note and sent it out with her owl, hoping there'd be a reply once she'd come back from following Frame.

Rain was coming down when she arrived at the owl office. It made her disillusionment spell less efficient. If the rain became stronger, her shape would be clearly outlined. Hermione glanced up at the clouds and hoped she'd be lucky.

She scanned the street, her eyes trained to pick up subtle inconsistencies. She spotted the other disillusioned person at once.

Slowly, Hermione walked over to the almost invisible shape, trying not to step into puddles that could give away her position.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"I'm thinking about becoming an investigator, what with my talents," Millicent whispered back.

"No you don't. This isn't the time and place to annoy me. Go back to your agency and let me work."

"Or what?" Millicent whispered. "Are you going to glare at me?"

What in the name of Aberforth's dirty glasses was she trying to accomplish? Hermione couldn't see Millicent's face so her ability to judge her seriousness was limited. "Go away," she whispered furiously.

"Bite me."

The door opened. Frame came down the stairs that led up to the entrance. She was easy to spot with her yellow skirt, pink top and noisy bead bracelet.

"What are you going to do if she Apparates?"

Hermione made a shushing noise. "Shut up; huge ears," she said. She couldn't stun Millicent without her falling over and making some kind of noise, but she'd be able to hex her silent. One more word, and Hermione would do just that.

They followed Frame down Diagon Alley. Hermione put her hand into her pocket, closing it around a small packet of light blue dust. Frame looked left and right before she turned around a corner and walked quickly down a small side street. Then, almost at the end of it where there were deep shadows, Frame disappeared.

Millicent let out a string of colourful curses. Hermione ignored her. She sprinted as fast as she could toward the place where Frame had vanished, pulling out the small bag of powder as she went. Every second counted.

"What are you doing?" Millicent watched as Hermione threw a handful of powder over the elf-less spot.

"When you Apparate, you concentrate on your destination. It can't be all that different with elf magic." Hermione was waiting for the blue dust to settle under a protective magical dome she'd created to shield it from the rain. "It leaves an imprint behind, an image of pure energy that stays for only a few moments."

Hermione waved her wand in concentric circles over the dust, muttering a charm. The dust rose; more and more grains flew into the air, swirling in strange and complicated patterns. Very slowly, the dust created an image. On a small hill stood a crooked building surrounded by a fence. The doors and windows were boarded up, a narrow road led to a village.

"That's the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade," Millicent said.

"At least I know the terrain," Hermione answered. She reached out and grabbed what she hoped was Millicent's arm. Then she Apparated them both.

They arrived under a cluster of trees out of sight from the house.

Millicent yanked her arm free. "What are we going to do?" she asked.

"We're going to cast some spells to determine how many people or elves are inside." Hermione did that, using a bit of complicated magic and long years of experience. "Four elves," she said.

"So what are we going to do now?" Millicent repeated.

"This must be their centre of operation. Whoever they are. And whatever they operate. They won't just vanish from here. Which is why we'll be polite, walk up to the front door and knock." Hermione dropped her disillusionment charm.

"What?"

"Follow me and try to look like you know what you're doing."

Werewolf sanctuary, Death Eater stronghold and now what? House-elf conspiracy centre? A lot of bad things had happened in this house, and Hermione couldn't escape the memories. She gripped her wand tightly as they walked up to the front door.

The door was boarded and looked as if it hadn't been used in decades.

She knocked.

Millicent had dropped her disillusionment charm and was standing next to Hermione, tall and solid as a rock.

They never saw the spell coming.

**

Hermione woke up on a hard wooden floor. It smelled musty, and as she blinked her eyes open, she couldn't make out anything but the faintest traces of light coming in through tiny cracks in the otherwise dark room. What had happened?

She tried to sit up and nearly jumped when small, firm hands helped her.

"Miss Hermione, you is alright?"

"Pix? What are you doing here? What happened?" Hermione stretched a little to get a feel for her body. When nothing hurt, she patted her pockets and checked her holster. Everything including her wand was still there.

Pixy let out a breath. When she spoke, she sounded relieved. "They took me. And now they took you and Miss Millicent."

Millicent. Hermione tried to make out a Bulstrode-sized shape but her eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the darkness. She concentrated on her other senses and heard quiet, regular breathing on the other side of the room that turned into a groan as she was listening.

"Excellent plan, Granger," Millicent said a minute later. "That worked really well. I wish I were as good as you. You sure showed them how-"

"Oh, shut up," Hermione said. She still had no idea what had happened. "Pix?" she asked more softly. "I thought you were sick. You sent a note, didn't you?"

"Sick?" Pixy sounded scandalised. "I is not sick."

"But why did they take you? What do they want?"

"They wants to stop the murders." The last word was hardly audible.

"Who are they?" Hermione asked.

Pixy hesitated. "They's not evil," she finally said. "They's worried and trying to do something."

"I know, Pix." Hermione put as much honesty into her voice as possible. Pixy was kind and caring, and it wasn't the first time that she was torn between her loyalty as an elf, and her loyalty as Hermione's friend and assistant. "We came to talk and not to attack."

"They doesn't trust you," Pixy said. "Wizards doesn't want to know, they said. Wizards kill elves, they said." She paused, and then she whispered, "They said _you_ killed Libby."

The words made Hermione nauseous. Had she killed Libby? She shook her head. No, she hadn't killed the elf. But her actions might have caused Libby's death. The difference was purely intellectual; the result was the same.

Millicent picked up the conversation. "Do you know why the elves are dead?"

"No," Pixy said.

Hermione frowned in the darkness. She took out her wand and muttered, "Lumos." Nothing happened, and she tried again, very precise in her charm work. Again, nothing happened. She heard Millicent do the same.

"Magic doesn't work here," Pixy said. "They blocks us from it."

"That's why they left us the wands." Hermione rummaged around in her pockets until she found a slender tube about four inches long, filled with a gel that would have appeared yellow if they'd had enough light to see it. "And that's why we have a back-up plan." She gripped the tube with both hands and snapped it.

Yellow light illuminated the room. All three of them were sitting on the floor. Hermione and Pixy leaned against the wall next to a door, and Millicent sat on the opposite side under a boarded up window. A quick check made sure that the door was locked and the boards were solid. Nothing else was in the room - no furniture, no rug, no pictures on the wall.

Millicent eyed the glowing tube. "What's that? It's not magic, is it?" she asked.

"Chemistry," Hermione said. Both Millicent and Pixy looked at her blankly. Hermione sighed. "Nevermind. We can see now."

"Why did they bring us here? What do they want from us?" Millicent asked.

Hermione looked around in the empty room once more. "I don't think they want anything from us," she said. "I think they want us to stay out of something. Who are they, Pixy?" she asked again.

"I doesn't know all of them," Pixy said. "I followed Frame yesterday because I heard her watch the office. There was three - one of them I saw before at Hogwarts."

So Pixy had basically done the same as Hermione and Millicent, just a day earlier. "And they kept you here?" Hermione said.

Pixy nodded.

"Where are they now? Are they still in the house?" Hermione hadn't heard any noises from outside the room despite it not being soundproof. The rain was audible through the boarded window.

"They said that they won't come back until tomorrow. They plans something tonight."

"Do you know what they're planning?"

Pixy looked up and met Hermione's gaze. Her skin looked sick in the yellow light. "I heard them talk. They said there is only one way to stop it." Pixy's voice dropped to a low whisper. "They wants to kill him."

Hermione blinked. That went against everything elves believed in. They must be desperate. "Who is it?"

Pixy shook her head. "I does not know. But I knows where."

"Where?" Hermione asked.

"They has a black card."

"Sweet Salazar," Millicent said.

Hermione frowned. "You think they'll do it at the party? But there'll be no party if you're not there, right?"

"There will," Millicent said. "It's well organised. Frame has been there before; she knows that they don't need me to be there. "

Hermione wrecked her brain, trying to make all the information fit together. "The elves know what is happening," she thought aloud. "They think whatever happens will continue if they don't do something soon. They locked us up so we can't intervene." Another thing fell into place. "That's why they stole Minerva's booklet. They wanted to keep me from using the information to hurt more elves." Hermione gritted her teeth. "They think Libby died because she told me something."

But why did Libby die? Why would she kill herself because she said something? No one could get away with making so many murders look like suicides. It made no sense. Murder would make sense. But suicide? An elf couldn't be forced to commit suicide. A master's will didn't reach that far; ordering suicide meant breaking the bond that made an elf a slave.

The bond wasn't unbreakable.

Not unbreakable.

 _Break it._

Hermione lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. "Those sons of Blast-Ended Screwts."

"Could you give us a hint what you're talking about?" Millicent sounded impatient.

"The bond between elf and master isn't unbreakable," Hermione said. "Think about it. The new laws give elves the right to request clothes. The master cannot deny it; it's illegal. He can't threaten them with forced suicide either, because that would be the equivalent of giving clothes."

Millicent frowned. "So if you want to keep your elf, but your elf wants to be free, you need something stronger. You need something that is unbreakable."

"There's only one thing I know that would do this," Hermione said. "They must have used Unbreakable Vows to bind the elves. If the elf request to be free, or if the elf talks about what happened, they die. They forced the elves to swear on their lives."

Millicent got up and started pacing. She oozed anger and tension from every pore. "An Unbreakable Vow must be voluntarily given. But the magic doesn't care if someone is threatened or coerced or whatever. If the elf is there and says yes, it's enough."

"Exactly," Hermione said. "The master orders the elf to take the vow but stays clear of the ritual itself because that would be like ordering suicide."

Millicent made a disgusted sound. "So we have someone who took the vow, someone who bound it, and each and every master of the dead elves." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm sick of those fuckers."

Pixy cleared her throat. "And Curry?" she asked. "Curry was free and worked at Hogwarts. Why did she kill herself?"

That was a good question. Why had Curry killed herself? Had she been forced to take a vow as well? But why?

"Anyone else noticing how much Hogwarts we have in this story?" Millicent said. "We are now close to Hogwarts. The only free elf was killed at Hogwarts. This information report from McGonagall was stolen after you left Hogwarts. One of the elves who locked us up here works at Hogwarts."

"You're saying we'll find the killer at Hogwarts?" Hermione asked.

"Nah," Millicent said. "We're going to find the killer at my party. I'd bet good money, though, that they're operating from Hogwarts."

Hermione thought of her list of suspects. Horace Slughorn had been one of them. "Who from Hogwarts is on your guest-list?" Hermione asked.

"Two members of the staff, and usually around five to ten of their elves."

"I still don't understand the concept of those parties," Hermione said.

"And I'm not going to waste time explaining it when you can see it tonight for yourself. We have to concentrate on getting out of here."

Hermione hated it when other people had better points than herself but was at least honest enough to admit it.

"We cannot get out," Pixy said. "No one is able to use magic here. And there is no tools."

"We'll see about that." Millicent was pacing with purpose now. She walked along the walls of their prison, knocking on boards every now and then, peering into corners and stomping her feet.

"What is she doing?" Pixy asked.

"Don't worry, Pix." Hermione said. "The big bad woman is planning an outbreak." She got up as well and dusted off her trousers and cloak. "Oi, Bulstrode, you think the two of us are more hard-headed than those ancient boards?"

Millicent winked at her. "You bet, princess."

**

Protective elf magic was stronger than the spells of most wizards. Hermione had seen an elf breach the ancient wards of Malfoy Manor and rescue prisoners without so much as being slowed down. Elves could Apparate within Hogwarts; they could Apparate _into_ Hogwarts. If Pixy wasn't able to get out of the room, the wards were solid.

When it came to pure physical strength, elves were less capable. An elf like Pixy could have never made it out of the locked room with only her muscles. It had been enough to use wards that only blocked magical energy. Their captors had missed, though, that Hermione and Millicent were no elves.

"The window?" Millicent asked, and Hermione nodded. It looked like the weakest spot.

Hermione pulled off her cloak, took off her wand holster and pushed up the long sleeves of her shirt.

Millicent did more or less the same.

Hermione looked at the window with a frown. "How are we going to do this?" she asked.

"We're going to do it simply," Millicent said. "Pixy, would you please help us out with the light?"

Pixy bounced up at once and grabbed the glowing stick. She stood next to the window and held the luminescent tube at an angle that allowed Hermione and Millicent to see every crack and weakness in the dry wood.

They had a crucial advantage. The window had been boarded from the inside.

"Isn't this supposed to be a haunted house?" Millicent asked.

"I think so," Hermione said.

Millicent frowned at the boards. "Wouldn't a haunted house be boarded from the outside to prevent anything from coming out? Boards on the inside suggest the opposite."

Hermione tipped her head, hiding a smile. "Maybe a ghost who's afraid of burglars?" she suggested.

"Does the answer have anything to do with the elves?" Millicent asked. "Don't even pretend you don't know more than you want to tell me."

Hermione laughed quietly. She thought about a werewolf she'd known a long time ago, about a man who'd escaped prison only to be locked up in his own house, and about a little boy who'd grown up without his father. "No. It has nothing to do with the elves."

Millicent studied her face and then nodded.

It wasn't as easy as it had seemed at first. The boards were old and dry, but they weren't yet falling apart all by themselves.

They had tried standing side by side; it didn't work. The angle for at least one of them was awkward when they tried to focus their power and pull at the same board. Then they tried pulling on either ends of the same board, but that didn't work either.

"Get behind me," Hermione said.

"Behind you?" Millicent was grinning. Damn her.

"Just do it. Your arms are longer, you can reach from behind me, we can both pull into the same direction and use one leg as a lever."

"Oh yeah," Millicent said, her grin widening, "I should get behind you."

Hermione gripped the board with both hands and did very maturely not think about anything but pulling when Millicent's arms came around her and she felt rippling muscles on either side of her. Oh boy.

The board came off the wall slowly. They were both breathing hard and sweating once the first side of it was loose. It was easier to pull the rest of the board free then, but it still required a lot of effort.

When it was done and the first board clattered to the floor, they both let out a breath full of relief. Hermione used her sleeve to wipe sweat from her brow, and Millicent leaned against the far wall and shook out her arms.

"There's a time and place for everything," Millicent said. "Even for wishing Marcus Flint were here."

Hermione snorted. "I'm not quite that desperate yet." She eyed the small gap where dim light came in, unfiltered as the window had lost its glass a long time ago.

They used the same technique to loosen a second board, and then a third. Millicent's proximity did strange things to Hermione. Or maybe it wasn't so strange if she considered how long it had been since she'd had someone so close that she could feel their warmth and hear them breathing into her ear. Her skin tingled where their bare arms met, and when they stopped for a moment to reload their reserves, she leaned her head back against a firm shoulder. Just a little.

"Only one more," Pixy said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You needs only one more. Then you can climb outside and open the window with spells. Spells are working when you is outside."

Thank Merlin, Hermione thought.

The last board was the hardest. They pulled with all their strength, groaning and cursing. Hermione was grateful for Pixy who talked them through it: "It's almost being free. Just a little more. You is doing fine, Miss Hermione. It is coming!"

And finally, it was done. The gap was wide enough for Hermione to squeeze through. Rain was falling outside, thick grey clouds obscuring the sky. The window was on the first floor, facing the back of the house. No one would see them from the road that led to the house, and none of the elves seemed to be around.

It looked more or less safe - unless Hermione thought about the possibility of braking her neck if she slipped and fell before reaching the roof of the little tool shed and using it to lower herself to the ground. She did _not_ think about it. She had enough problems already.

With her wand holster back on her forearm, Hermione climbed out of the window. Millicent held her until her feet found the window sill. She made sure that it wouldn't break under her weight. Then she slowly pushed herself to the side, aware of how vulnerable she was in this position. She couldn't see what was behind her; she would fall if she let go to reach for her wand. There were noises around her, coming from the trees and the ground and the rain, and she felt a little dizzy as she tried to see as much as possible.

"Sweet Merlin," she muttered to herself. "Calm down or Lavender will give that gorgeous costume to someone else. Can't have that."

One tiny step after the other she came closer to the shed. "Now," Millicent called from inside. Hermione didn't hesitate. She used both arms and legs to fling herself into the general direction of the shed and hoped she wouldn't miss.

She didn't. She landed on the roof, scraping both palms on rough clay bricks that covered the shed. Why was there always blood involved? She cursed before she gave herself a mental shove and climbed down the roof.

From there it was easy. They left the house and hexed the boards back on once they were outside so it looked as if nothing had been moved. Millicent scowled a lot and called her clumsy, but she held Hermione's hands and healed the shallow cuts.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Pixy who hadn't said a word to tell Millicent that she could heal such wounds in the blink of an eye. Pixy looked back at her with big innocent eyes. Her ears twitched.

Then they figured out a plan.

**

While Millicent went to prepare her part of the plan, Hermione and Pixy walked from the Shrieking Shack back to the place where the threads seemed to meet. Hermione still had only a faint idea how those threads were connected. Fake it until you make it, she told herself, pulled her shoulders back and gave Pixy an encouraging smile.

"You doesn't know what to do either?" Pixy asked.

"Oh hush," Hermione said. "If we already knew everything, there'd be nothing left to learn. That would be a tragedy."

The corners of Pixy's eyes crinkled as they always did when she was trying not to laugh.

"If you keep that up, you won't get knitted gloves for Christmas," Hermione said.

"But I already has-"

Hermione scowled, and Pixy closed her mouth with a snap. The corners of her eyes were still crinkled.

When they reached the gates, Hermione sent a Patronus to Hagrid's hut. He appeared ten minutes later, covered from head to heavy boots in mud and slime.

"'Hermione," he said, beaming. "An' little Pixy. Come in, come in." He beckoned them both inside, mud and slime falling from his big hands.

"Hello Hagrid," Hermione said. "It's lovely to see you. You look busy." She gestured at him and his dirty clothes.

"Oh tha'. Don't yeh worry. I was jus' takin' care o' the giant mudworms. Feisty little buggers. Yeh want to see 'em?"

"We'd love to," Hermione said, lying through her teeth. "It's just that we're in a hurry. I talked to Minerva and Horace yesterday." That didn't at all explain why she was here one day later, but maybe Hagrid wouldn't notice.

Pixy nodded, her big ears bobbing up and down.

"'Course." Hagrid looked disappointed. "Yeh need to come more often."

Hermione promised she would, and she even evaded a hug, only grasping a big slimy hand. "Thank you Hagrid, I'll see you soon."

"On yer way," he said. "I'll be stayin' here, watchin' me worms." He waved at them and turned around, disappearing into the forest and muttering, "Feisty little buggers."

Mel wasn't in her quarters, and as expected, Slughorn wasn't either. When Hermione asked for Minerva, the translucent form of Professor Binns told her that she'd be back for the Halloween feast, but right now, she wasn't available.

That was good. It meant they didn't have to explain why they were there. Was she supposed to be suspicious at the convenience of it?

They found Timi in the kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw them, and a full bowl of pumpkin soup looked as if it was going to fall out of his hands, they were shaking so much.

Hermione drew her wand and spoke a charm to save the bowl.

Timi shrieked. He put his hands in front of his face, trying to shield himself from what he obviously thought was a curse directed at him.

Hermione put away the offending piece of wood. She showed Timi her hands, palms up. "It's okay," she said. "We came to talk. It's okay."

The kitchen around them had become silent. The elves had stopped working and were looking at them; some stood far closer than they had before.

Hermione repeated a bit louder, "Everything is okay. We just came to talk."

Timi looked confused, then seemed to realise that he hadn't been attacked. "Why?" he asked. "Why do you want to talk?"

"We want the same thing, Timi. If we work together, we can stop it before more blood is spilt."

Timi shook his head. "I do not know what you mean."

"Yes, you know it." The elves weren't working; they were still listening to every word. "Can we talk in private?" Hermione asked. "I promise we won't harm you."

"She is lying," an elf shouted. "They is all lying. They is hurting us."

Pixy squeezed Hermione's hand, signalling that this, too, had been one of the elves from the Shrieking Shack.

Another elf raised his voice. "I did see them with Hagrid. He would never bring harm to us. You know that."

Timi looked from one elf to the other and then said, "I will talk to you."

They went back to the same room where they'd talked the first time. It was the room where they kept the pumpkin juice. It was the room where Curry had died.

Timi sat down on one of the crates. Hermione and Pixy did the same.

"Timi, it won't help if you kill the man."

"Yes, it will," Timi said. He looked too tired to be able to deny what he and his friends were planning. "It will break the vows."

Pixy cleared her throat. When both Timi and Hermione looked at her, she spoke. "It will not break the vows."

"What?" Timi said, just as Hermione asked, "It will not?"

"I thinks it will not," Pixy said again, a little more confidence in her voice.

"It is impossible," Timi said.

Pixy held up the index finger of her left hand. "You needs one for binding the vow." Then she held up two fingers of her right hand. "You needs two for the vow itself. One who gives it, and one who receives it."

Three people were needed for an Unbreakable Vow; there was no question about that.

Pixy wiggled the single finger. "The binder is only needed for the ritual. He starts the vow. Then he is finished."

"We do not want to kill the binder," Timi said.

"Yes, you does."

"How do you know that, Pix?" Hermione asked.

Pixy showed them the two fingers of her right hand. "Because they needs to be the same." Her fingers trembled. "The vow combines the magic and braids it together. It forms a strong bond between receiver and giver. The vow doesn't break until one of them is dead."

Hermione understood. "You're saying that the magic of both of them must be compatible."

"Yes," Pixy said.

"But the magic of a witch or wizard and the magic of an elf is very different."

"Yes," Pixy said again.

Timi buried his face in his hands.

The conclusion was simple: If the giver of the vow was an elf, the receiver must be an elf as well.

There was silence in the small room with the pumpkin pie where an elf had lost her life.

Was this the reason why Curry's death had been a little different from the rest of them? Had she not been able to live with her guilt? Had she been the only elf who'd really killed herself because she must have known that it would break all the vows?

"Timi?" Hermione asked softly. "Curry was a free elf like all the others here, right?

Timi nodded.

"Could she have been forced to do something like that?"

Timi shook his head. Then he seemed to reconsider. "She would have never wanted to," he said. "She was a good elf."

Pixy got up from her crate and sat down next to him, offering support without pushing.

"Every free elf wants to work at Hogwarts," Timi said. "Everyone knows it is the best place for elves to be. Only few ever go away. And only very bad elves are ever asked to leave. They will never get work at another place."

So the binder could have forced Curry to take the vows. She must have heard from the deaths, and it must have literally killed her. But then what? What about Libby? Had the binder been so greedy that he'd continued with another elf after Curry's death as if nothing had happened? It was unthinkable. The whole thing was.

"Do you know which elves have taken the vow? Can you give us a list, so we can avoid them until we're certain that the vows are broken?"

"I do not know them," Timi said.

Hermione had hoped he'd know. She paused to think. Then she asked, "Did you steal the booklet from me?"

Timi hesitated. "We did not mean to harm you," he said. "We do not want more deaths." Then, quietly, "I stole it. I burned it. I am sorry."

"I doesn't think there was anything important inside," Pixy said.

"No. I don't think so either," Hermione said. "He'd have mad sure of that. I just had to know."

"Will you talk to them?" said Timi. "Will you hurt them?"

"I promise not to talk to any elves before we cleared up who's under a vow and who isn't. You have my word," Hermione said. "I ask you to stay away from the Halloween party tonight. We're going to get the binder. If we have him, we can decide what to do next."

Timi nodded. He looked at Pixy. "You are sure we cannot break the vows if we kill him, and that most of the vows are already broken?"

Pixy took Timi's hand and squeezed. "Yes."

Timi lifted his head and looked at the ceiling, staring at one single spot in the middle of the second beam. "I have to work now," he said. "It is a long day for us. We have a feast tonight, and cleaning the kitchen will take at least until midnight."

"Thank you, Timi," Hermione said.

**

"Pix, why did you lie to me when I found the unlabelled envelope?" Hermione asked. They were walking toward the door of Percy's flat.

"I is sorry, Miss Hermione," Pixy said. "I didn't know it was Miss Millicent's elf. I thought the elf was afraid, or maybe in danger."

Hermione nodded. "Is that why you didn't tell me about the elves that watched my office?"

They had reached the door and Hermione knocked. Pixy's eyes were firmly on the floor. "I heard owl-Frame, and I knows she isn't bad."

"So you followed her."

Pixy nodded.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. "You should have told me, Pix. It's my job, and you know that I try to help where I can."

The door opened just as Pixy said, "I wasn't sure what was happening so I wanted to look first. You sometimes doesn't listen to me, Miss Hermione." She looked crestfallen at her own words.

Percy was grinning. "Don't take it personal, Pixy," he said. "It's her, not you."

Hermione smacked the back of his head non-too-gently.

Chortling, he let them both in. "Where have you been? I was trying to contact you all morning."

"Do you have some food? The story might take a minute to tell." She frowned at him. "You look better than yesterday. Good news?"

Percy pushed up his glasses. "Hopefully. I worked through the elf files, combined it with the information you gathered, added Libby's death and sent it all to the head of the Department of Magical Law enforcement. They'll have to start an official investigation even without MacFarlan's approval. I scheduled a meeting with him tomorrow morning. Then I'll know more."

"You're brilliant," Hermione said and kissed his cheek - mainly to see him turn pink.

Percy provided pumpkin juice and pumpkin soup and pumpkin sandwiches. A carved pumpkin was on his table, a bed sheet was hexed to float around the room in an impersonation of a ghost, and Stravinsky's 'Infernal Dance' was playing in the background.

"You take your Halloween theme seriously," Hermione said between bites. The sandwich tasted excellent.

"I'm getting ready for the party tonight. Are you going to come?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think I'll make it." Then she told him what had happened that day, from the attack to the talk with Millicent, how they'd followed Frame and ended up in the Shrieking Shack.

"Oh dear," Percy said. "And now you're attending the black-card Halloween party." He grimaced into his glass of pumpkin juice. "Good luck with that."

"Wait a moment," Hermione said. "Do you know about these parties? Am I the only one who has no clue what they even are?"

"Uh," Percy looked around as if desperately searching for a distraction. "I might have heard about it. But I've never been there."

"What have you heard?"

Percy made a defensive gesture, holding up his hands. "Those are just rumours. No idea what is true and what's just people exaggerating." He cleared his throat. "Do you need back-up?"

Hermione didn't believe a word but didn't push. They were right. She'd see for herself later. The offer to help on the other hand, made her feel warm. "Thanks Percy," she said. "But I've got a plan." She forgot to mention that large parts of the plan depended on Millicent.

He nodded.

"Won't MacFarlan be angry about the report?" she asked.

"Probably," Percy said. "I've wanted to talk to her about it, but she wasn't in the office today. No one knows where she is."

"Isn't that a little suspicious?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know," Percy said. "She has a temper, and she's not all that interested in elves - which is only a small part of her work. Then again, her integration plans when it comes to werewolves have helped a great deal, and her campaign for more acceptance and understanding of mixed blood people has done a lot of good in these last years. She's already done more than her predecessor did in three decades."

"So why isn't she interested in the elf suicides? Does that make sense to you?"

The question was rhetorical, and Percy knew it. It made sense under one condition: If Isabel MacFarlan was somehow involved in the deaths.

**

 

Chapter Five

The costume was gorgeous. How Lavender had made it in less than five hours was a mystery. Hermione smoothed down the front, tugged at the silky fabric in the back, moved her arms over her head to test its flexibility, and marvelled at the comfortable shoes Lavender had chosen to go with it.

"I didn't bother with heels," Lavender said and winked. "I don't want to be sued if you kick someone in the groin."

"I hope we can do this without kicking."

"I'm crossing my fingers. Be quick and come to the real party when you're finished. You don't want to miss our costumes."

"Not crotchless like George suggested, is it?" Hermione asked.

"Far better," Lavender said.

Hermione and Pixy made their goodbyes and left Lavender. Ron wasn't home yet, which was just as well.

Halloween night had left Diagon Alley almost deserted. Few people were out on the streets, some of them clad in colourful costumes, some carrying last minute party supplies. From the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione and Pixy walked all the way down to the very end of the alley. They passed Gringotts, the shops, the quieter parts where there were some houses of mostly prominent and rich people, and then they turned left into a small street.

Amor Alley was the only street in London's Wizarding quarter that was more infamous than Knockturn Alley. Many people didn't even acknowledge its existence. Amor Alley's busy hours started when business died in other places. The street was packed with shops, restaurants, clubs and houses that were charmed to appear empty during the day, but came to life once the sun set.

It wasn't late enough for the businesses to be open yet, but they showed the first signs of life. Windows were being opened, signs were being dragged outside, scantily clad women and men entered through doors that only appeared when one spoke a password.

"What number is on the card?" Hermione asked.

"Number sixty-three," Pixy said. "It must be at the end of the street."

"And you're sure you don't need a costume?"

"I is sure."

At the very end of the alley, there was a nondescript building with no signs and nothing that would give away its purpose. The windows were blackened, and the door looked as if it hadn't been used in a long time. Before it, though, was a small display, small enough to be overlooked if one didn't pay attention. There were no letters on the display. It was rectangular and completely black.

"I think it's the right place," Hermione said. She looked around but didn't see anyone. There were no noises coming from inside. She knocked.

They didn't have to wait for long.

A man opened the door. His clothes were made from leather, and such a deep, rich black that they seemed to absorb the light. He wore knee-high boots, trousers that clung to his strong legs, a jacket that fell loosely from his shoulders down to his waist, gloves and a simple, thin collar. His forehead disappeared under a black hat; most of his face was hidden behind a black mask. His eyes were dark and striking, his lashes long. What Hermione could see of his face was pale and smooth. He had a rectangular but still soft looking jaw and thin lips. A drop of blood had trickled down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. It was bright red against his white skin and looked as if it was still wet.

A vampire.

If it hadn't been Halloween, it would have been time to run.

The corners of the man's mouth twitched. He said in a very familiar voice, "You're early."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "Bulstrode."

The look she received in return was a thinly veiled compliment to Lavender's work.

Hermione wore a mockery of a Venetian costume. It was white with a black floral pattern, and to call it short would have been like calling Hagrid big. It had a halter neckline, making her decolletage look far more exciting than it actually was. Everything was hemmed and adorned with black lace. A bolero covered her shoulders; it was so small that its mere existence was barely more than a rumour. Lavender had added loose lace sleeves. Their only purpose was to hide the holster of Hermione's wand. Fishnet stockings covered her legs but didn't quite reach the hem of her skirt. A satin, feathered black mask veiled most of her face, and her hair was pulled back and kept in a tight braid. Lavender had charmed it pure white.

Millicent's gaze lingered upon the place where the bodice of the dress was ripped and where a bloodied hole was visible. Clever spells made it look like there was an actual hole in her chest complete with gore and a missing heart.

"The Warlock's bride, I take it?" Millicent said.

Hermione, very pointedly, did _not_ stare at the collar. "Beedle the Bard has always been a big influence in my life," she said, tugging at her dress, somehow not sure if this had been a good idea. It wasn't too short, was it?

**

Millicent showed Hermione and Pixy the house and its many different rooms. She explained where exits were, how many of the windows could be opened, and how to get on the two spacious balconies that opened to the rear of the house. Still no guests had arrived when they were through. They went to the main room and sat down at the bar.

Most of the ground floor was one big room. It looked like a nightclub. There were a few sofas in the corners, tables with high stools, a bar counter that covered one side. The surfaces were polished black wood; heavy purple curtains adorned the walls. The music had started. It was slow with a heavy bass that made Hermione's insides vibrate.

"Pix, keep an eye on the elves. Let me know if there's anything strange going on, and come find me if Timi or one of his friends show up."

"Yes, I'll watch the elves."

Millicent checked the clock above the bar and then took something out of her pocket. She opened her gloved hand. Two small blue pills lay innocently side by side. "Take one," Millicent said. "Your costume is _good_ ," she said as if she didn't mean its powers of disguise. "Those will make your voice unrecognisable - just make sure you don't talk about history books."

Hermione swallowed one. She recognised the familiar taste. "That's a Weasley product," she said.

Millicent grinned. It looked terrifying in the context of the costume. "It works. We give them to all our guests. They like anonymity."

"The elves, too?" Hermione asked.

"Not the elves," Millicent said. She looked sideways at Hermione. "Elves are not allowed upstairs in the separate rooms. They'll be down here the whole time, and there's a room in the back where they can talk among themselves. No wizards and witches allowed."

Hermione could add one and one. Dark purple colours, separate rooms, slow sensual music, Amor Alley, anonymity, secret invitations. She knew why the witches and wizards were there. But why the elves? What did she miss? What was the point of this other than getting some people laid?

"Guests," Millicent said. "Excuse me for a moment."

Hermione watched the woman positively saunter over to the door, her steps fluid and firm, a mixture of control and seduction. Hermione swallowed.

A couple of minutes later, two people entered through the curtain that separated the main room from the foyer. Their costumes made it impossible to see who they were. She was tall and lean, wearing a leather outfit that was rather revealing. He was tall as well, had broad shoulders and enough bulk to make his roman soldier costume look only a little silly. They sat down on one of the couches, ordering drinks and making themselves comfortable. Their elf went over to talk to Pixy, and together the two disappeared in the back.

"How are we going to recognise our targets?" Hermione asked when Millicent was back.

"I'm going to personally greet every guest tonight. I'll know who they are, but they won't know it's me."

Hermione took a sip from her butterbeer. "Have you talked to your decoy?"

Millicent nodded. "She's going to do it. She'll be here a bit later." She checked the clock again. "In an hour. He should arrive around the same time."

"Why's she helping us?"

Millicent smiled, her eyes looking past Hermione. "She's got a stake in the matter. She's very interested in the truth."

"You're sure you don't want to tell me who she is?"

"My guests trust me to keep their identity secret."

**

The room filled with people. They arrived in a steady trickle, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, and they always had at least one elf with them. Some of the elves wore tea-towels, some wore clothes, some even came alone. They stayed amongst themselves, and most of them retreated to the room in the back as soon as they arrived.

The wizards and witches all wore costumes. There was a lot of leather, lace, satin, velvet, and mostly dark, rich colours. Some were more modest than others, but all of them were dressed to impress.

Their body language was telling. Hermione watched flirting and laughter, a lot of heated looks, and talks that looked almost like negotiations. Some went upstairs in groups of two or more, some went up alone. Some sat down on the sofas with a drink, seemingly content to be in the main room, mingling.

The atmosphere was relaxed with a slow sensual undertone that wasn't blatant, even though the venue was anything but subtle.

Hermione talked about Spanish cuisine with a torero, about Italian avant-garde art with a priest, and exchanged innuendo laden banter with a gorgeous fairy. No one knew who she was, and Hermione had to remind herself more than once that she was there to work. Being masked was liberating in a way. Maybe it was the lack of expectations.

Around sixty people were at the party, Hermione estimated, when she saw Millicent in her vampire costume come toward her. Millicent hardly slowed down as she passed Hermione. She only bent her head to whisper, "Follow me. We're ready."

Hermione waited until Millicent was almost out of sight. Then she pushed herself away from the bar and went after her. It was supposed to look like casual sauntering while being as fast as possible. At least she had sensible shoes. She might have broken a leg or two otherwise.

The vampire went up the stairs; Hermione followed. Someone touched her bum as she passed. She grabbed the hand and twisted it without ever slowing down. Hard to sue her for a broken finger if her identity wasn't known.

The hallway on the first floor was deserted; purple flickering torches lit the way. Two of the doors had a black cross where the handle would have been. Those rooms were already occupied. While the heavy beat of the music was clearly audible - and palpable - from downstairs, there was not a single noise coming out from behind those doors.

Hermione shivered.

Millicent stopped at a patch of wall where there was no door. She touched the tapestry with the tip of her wand and murmured a spell. With what sounded like a soft sigh, the tapestry folded in on itself and peeled away, revealing a dark chamber, not much bigger than a broom closet.

They went inside before anyone had the chance to see them. The tapestry closed behind them.

"They won't be able to hear us," Millicent said. "They won't be able to see us either." She tapped the wall, and a section the size of a small window shimmered and then turned into a translucent surface that was almost as transparent as glass.

Hermione touched it. The wall was softer than it ought to be, as if it was saturated with a watery gel. "Nice," she said. "You'll have to show me how to do that some time."

"Some time, maybe."

Hermione shivered again. This time, it wasn't the spooky atmosphere or the strange purple light. It was Millicent's breath that sent her words ghosting over Hermione's ear.

"Will Pix find us here if she needs us?"

"Yes."

A man walked into the room. He wore a black tuxedo and a crisp white shirt. A hat covered his hair and a mask hid his face. Hermione knew who he was.

While the costume hid his features, it couldn't hide his build. He was short with a large belly, and a moustache that was visible even under his mask. He wore large gold buttons and a purple band around his middle. His shining black shoes had considerable heels to make him look taller than he was.

It was Horace Slughorn; there was no doubt. But would Hermione's old potions professor do something as cruel as binding elves to their masters with an Unbreakable Vow? He'd stood with them during the last battle. He'd even duelled Voldemort.

He was an opportunist. He exploited whatever - and whoever - came his way. But simple cruelty? A crime that took life?

Slughorn sat down on the bed and waited.

Then the door opened again. A dark figure came into the room, standing in the shadows by the door, not moving. He needed a few moments to realise what was expected of him. Then he got up from the bed and knelt down on the floor, his knees creaking in protest as they took his whole weight with nothing but the hard wooden floor to cushion its pressure.

The figured moved as soon as Slughorn had settled down. It was a woman, tall and slender. She held herself with a firm grace that spoke of wisdom and confidence. A corset bound her middle, held at the back with silver buckles. It was a deep crimson red, the colour of fresh blood, adorned with gold ornaments. She wore trousers of supple black leather. It looked expensive and sleek, like dragonhide, and it matched the gloves that went up over her elbows. She wore a broad red lace collar, and a mask that covered her whole face and was made from the same material. Tiny feathers were attached above the eyes and were the only playful detail of the otherwise hard-looking costume.

Hermione was disappointed that she couldn't see her bare skin. She found herself holding her breath as the woman walked in a slow circle around Slughorn. She corrected his posture, tapping the tips of her red heels against the parts of his body that didn't meet her approval. He widened his stance, clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head.

She stood so close before him that her legs were almost touching him, one foot planted between his spread knees.

When she spoke, it was with a deep voice and a faint French accent. "Take off your hat, your jacket, and unbutton your shirt." Her tone was imperious; she'd accept no contradiction.

Slughorn was breathing heavily; Hermione heard him pant as he took off his hat and revealed his bald head with only a few tufts of grey hair. The woman stood there, hands folded at the small of her back, her leg still close enough for him to smell the leather. She waited.

He leaned back a little as he shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor. Then he loosened his bow-tie and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers as he did so.

"This is so wrong," Hermione muttered.

"What is?" Millicent said, speaking again into her ear. "Is it wrong they're having fun? Is it wrong that she's going to find out if it was him? Is it wrong that we're looking?" There was a hand on Hermione's waist.

"It's just wrong," Hermione said.

"Wrong like breaking into someone else's business to find information?"

"You wanted me to."

Millicent hummed her agreement. "Look at him. He wants it."

Slughorn was still kneeling. A trickle of sweat had made its way down from his scalp to his neck and then disappeared in the collar of his open shirt. He panted, his parted lips a hairs breadth away from the woman's leg.

The woman lifted her gloved hand and snapped her fingers. She hadn't spoken, and she hadn't used her wand. But an instant later, she held a slender riding crop. It cut through the air as the woman moved her hand sharply, and it stopped only an inch before it hit Slughorn's thigh.

He flinched. Enough reason for her to do it again. This time, she didn't stop. She hit his thigh with a firm smack. He bit his lip, trying to keep himself from gasping.

"Very well," the woman said. She let the flat end of the crop travel up Slughorn's thigh. It stopped at the juncture of his legs. The handle bowed as the woman applied pressure. Slughorn's nostrils flared, and a second bead of sweat ran down his head.

Millicent's hand moved as well. It came around to the front and settled atop Hermione's hipbone. Hermione had broken the person's fingers downstairs for less. Now, she didn't move. She wasn't afraid of Millicent and believed without a doubt that she could free herself if she wanted to.

Hermione felt the tips of her breasts harden, felt them rub against the inside of her dress, and only then did she notice that her body was shifting in tiny motions, trying to feel the woman standing behind her.

What did she know about Millicent Bulstrode? Millicent was cunning, smart in a non-bookish and very practical way, manipulative, strangely caring. And she was obviously interested. She pushed about a million of Hermione's buttons, and her body was doing _things_ to her. It all amounted to a simple decision:

Hell, yes.

With everything Hermione had experienced and lived through, she'd learnt that there were some opportunities you grab if you get the chance.

She kept her eyes on the scene in front of her but leaned her head back against Millicent's shoulder, giving silent permission.

The crop travelled up over Slughorn's protruding belly, dipped into his navel, followed his sternum and then turned to the side to rest over one nipple. Millicent's hand mimicked the movement. She touched Hermione's belly and went higher, cupping her breast through the bodice of her dress.

When the crop came down sharply on Slughorn's nipple, Millicent tweaked Hermione, the thin fabric hardly softening the stinging sensation.

Slughorn rocked back on his heels, his large belly moving. He didn't have the time to regain his balance; the crop came down on him again, hitting exactly the same spot, making him hiss in pain.

Millicent did the opposite. Instead of inflicting pain, she skimmed her gloved fingers along the neckline of Hermione's dress, and then slipped them inside to cup her naked breast. Hermione made a low sound of pleasure and shifted, aligning her body with Millicent's.

The woman took a small step forward, pressing her foot against Slughorn's crotch, and then she played the tip of the crop around his reddened nipple. He moaned and swayed, and when there was another smack, louder this time, he lost his balance and fell back against the bed.

Hermione had to fight to keep her eyes open as Millicent ran her thumb in circles around her nipple, tugged lightly while she reached down with her other hand and lifted Hermione's skirt. The leather felt cool against the soft skin of her thigh.

Lips touched the shell of her ear. "Watch them," Millicent whispered, her breath as sensual as the touch of her hands. "He'd do anything for her right now." She bit Hermione's ear and moved her hand farther up Hermione's thigh, her fingers touching the hem of lacy knickers. "And he doesn't even know who she is."

The woman had taken another step, her shoe pressing hard against the prominent bulge in Slughorn's trousers. She tutted, looking down at Slughorn who was panting heavily. His position looked uncomfortable as his legs were bent under him, and his upper body leaned far back with his head on the edge of the bed. She folded back his shirt with the crop, trailing it along the outlines of his torso. It came to a halt under his chin and then pushed, forcing his head back, exposing his throat.

Millicent's fingers were touching Hermione's naked breasts, a gloved hand was cupping her mound through lace and leather as she watched Slughorn undress and then crawl over the floor to lick his mistress' shoes.

It was surreal to see the riding crop come down hard on his bare arse, leaving a flaming patch of skin and then disappear between his lower cheeks when the sensation Hermione experienced was almost too tender. She ground herself down on Millicent's hand, sweat gathering at the nape of her neck.

Slughorn was on all fours, naked except for the mask. He rocked back and forth, submissive and taking the smacks of the crop and its caresses with eagerness. His cock was red, hard and leaking; his stomach almost touched the floor; his thighs were quivering; his head was bowed. Hermione heard panting noises from him and that purring, throaty voice from the woman who told him what to do. She played with him like he was a toy.

The world started to spin as Millicent's thumb circled Hermione's clit in the same maddening slowness as the woman circled Slughorn. Lips touched her neck, and Millicent sucked lightly. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to intensify the touch of her hands and her body, rock solid against Hermione's back.

In a staccato rhythm, the crop patted the back of Slughorn's balls through his open legs, hard enough to make him keen or moan - Hermione couldn't tell the difference.

And then it was too much. Millicent rolled her nipples, pressed her thumb against Hermione's clit, dipped a leather-gloved finger into her and ran her tongue along Hermione's neck.

Hermione shuddered and came, held by someone who could have been a vampire, a succubus, a girl she once knew and hated, or just a woman she wanted to know better - all past be damned.

Hermione turned around, weakened but far from weak, grabbed Millicent's shoulders, then turned again, pressing her against the wall never quite obscuring the window. "Don't think you can play me," she whispered, returning the heated look of Millicent's half-closed, heavy-lidded eyes.

Hermione stuck out her tongue and lapped up that single drop of blood on the corner of Millicent's mouth, almost breaking out in laughter when she tasted strawberry. But the laughter died in her throat when their lips met in a frantic kiss, teeth clicking, tongues touching, breaths mingling.

It was too intimate. They both broke the kiss, stared at each other. Then Hermione's gaze fell back on the scene in the other room while she opened Millicent's trousers with shaking hands. Millicent's head fell back against the wall just as Slughorn arms gave way and his upper body hit the floor, his arse obscenely up in the air.

"Such a good boy," the woman purred.

Beneath Millicent's trousers, there was only bare skin. Hermione pulled her into another rough kiss. The tips of Hermione's fingers parted her wet folds and made her tremble. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her hands came up to cup the back of Hermione's head.

She smelled clean and fresh with only a hint of a heady scent.

When she came, her face relaxed. The lids of her eyes fluttered; her mouth parted in a soundless 'oh'; her shoulders slumped.

Slughorn wasn't there yet. He'd spread his knees even more, shamelessly begging for attention.

Whenever he seemed to get close to the edge, the woman countered the arousal with another smack, bringing him down again and again only to then continue caressing his heavy bits, his perineum and his arse. She made him lick the crop clean when a drop of precome stained the flat tip, and then rewarded him by pushing the wet crop inside him, making him nearly incoherent.

Hermione still held Millicent against the wall in something that was only half an embrace and started to feel awkward. "Let's talk about this later," Hermione said and stepped back as far as possible - which wasn't very far in the confined space of the chamber.

Millicent closed her trousers, and then she did something Hermione hadn't expected. She took her hand and squeezed once, giving her a small smile.

Hermione returned both gestures.

"Now don't go all mushy on me," Millicent said, breaking the awkwardness.

Hermione snickered.

The woman moved the crop in tiny rocking motions, the tip still inside Slughorn. "Such a good servant," she said. "You're not going to ask for your clothes, are you?" Her words combined with the French accent and the dark timbre of her voice had a slithering quality. "You're not going to betray me? You're not going to want your freedom after all that I've done for you?"

"Do they know each other?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, and no," Millicent said. She gestured in the direction of Slughorn. "His disguise is never very good. Everyone who looks closely knows who he is. I think he does it on purpose. He wants to be seen and associated with those who come here."

"And she?" Hermione said.

"No one but me knows who she is. Her costumes and masks are always flawless." She nodded at them. "It's not the first time they've done this. They have some kind of ongoing affair. Shared tastes and all that."

"Which means that to a degree, he thinks he knows her and thinks he can trust her."

"Exactly," Millicent said. Then she frowned. "Will we be able to use any of this against him? I mean if it comes to a trial."

Hermione snorted. It was amusing to imagine the whole Wizengamot watching those memories. "'Course not. This isn't for the Ministry. This is for us so we'll know if he's really the binder. Then we can apply some pressure."

Slughorn had lifted his head slightly, still grinding down on the crop. He said, breathless, "I can be your elf."

The woman pulled out the crop and smacked him hard. "You stay right here, in your place." Her voice was low and threatening. "I have an elf." She smacked him again, earning a gasp in response. "And if she chooses to go, there's nothing I can do." And again the crop came down again, punishing Slughorn for something else altogether - at least that was what it looked like.

"Maybe I can help you," he ground out, and then said, "Please." When there was no further touch and no further caress, he begged again. "Please, I'd do anything."

The tip of the crop tickled his testicles, hardly even touching them. "What would you do?" she asked.

Slughorn keened. "I can talk to her."

The woman hit him again, mercilessly aiming for the base of his cock. Slughorn wriggled, though it wasn't clear if he was trying to get away from the instrument or closer to it. "I've done it before," he said. "Convinced them to stay. Did she ask the question yet?"

The touch grew softer again. "Not yet," the woman said. "But it will not take long, I think."

He took a series of quick, gulping breathes before he spoke. "Then it's not too late. Send her to me. Tell her to listen to what I have to say and," he broke off when the crop kissed his arse again. "Tell her to obey my orders in your place."

The woman stood stock-still, her voice low, having lost all its playfulness. "What will happen then?"

"She will change her mind," Slughorn said.

The woman let go of the crop, and it landed next to Slughorn's thighs. She looked as if she wanted to spit on him.

Slughorn noticed the change of her mood and turned his red sweaty face up, confused. "What?" he asked.

"You disgust me, Horace," she said with her faint French accent. Then she left the room.

Hermione was stunned at the performance and at what she'd heard. "Whoever that is, I like her," she said.

Millicent let out a genuine bark of laughter. "Yeah, you do."

**

Millicent had asked Hermione not to cause a big scene at the party itself. Aurors stomping all over the place and interrogating the guests would keep them all from coming back. Which, Hermione was assured, was a bad thing for the elves.

"He usually takes a drink downstairs and then leaves. He never stays for long," Millicent said.

She was right. Slughorn dressed - still looking slightly dazed and confused, still without having found his relief - and then went downstairs. He downed two glasses of smoking amber liquid in quick succession. He looked around the room as if he was searching for someone. Less than ten minutes later, he gave up.

He left. Hermione and Millicent were close behind him.

"Good evening, Horace," Hermione called when they were outside, satisfied when Slughorn turned around. Hermione pushed up her mask. She smiled as she saw Slughorn's eyes widen.

"Good evening, Hermione," he said.

Hermione pointed her wand at him. "Don't try anything funny. I have a quick wand, a vampire, and I know where you live." _God_ , she'd wanted to say that for years.

"Why would I-" he started.

"Because you're a coward who uses magic to take away free will," Hermione said.

He gasped and almost looked sincere in his pretended state of shock. "I do not know what-"

Hermione interrupted him again. "What went wrong, Horace?" They were standing close to him now, face to face as he'd taken off his mask as well. "The elves, Horace. What went wrong?"

"I didn't do anything," Slughorn said.

"Nine dead elves would like to disagree," Millicent said. Her voice was cold.

Something that almost looked like pain flashed across his face. He recovered quickly.

"You can't prove a thing."

Hermione laughed. "That's the beauty of it," she said. "I don't have to. I've found enough traces and evidence that points at you and makes you a suspect. I'll call the Aurors, show it all to them, and they'll do the rest. They'll dig until they find something, and they'll ask all the uncomfortable questions. Did you know, for example, that now that Curry is dead, they'll be able to talk to all the elves who took the vow? I'll just have to sit back and watch."

"I don't think you will," a deep voice said, coming from far too close behind her. The tip of a wand pressed against her throat, and she heard a gasp from Millicent. "Don't you move or it'll be the last thing you do."

Hermione recognised the man from the voice alone. It was the leader of the attack outside of her flat. "It's so not good to see you again," she muttered.

"Don't worry. The pleasure is all mine."

He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back hard. Then he took her wand. Another man stood close by, and from the corner of her eye she saw that two more were holding Millicent.

"Oh Horace," Hermione said. Her voice was strained as she tried to keep at least some control. "Did no one ever tell you that cheap thugs will get you into Azkaban and nowhere else?"

Her attacker yanked at her hair, and she nearly lost her balance. "Shut up, little girl," he said.

Hermione had no wand; she had no leverage; there was a wand at her throat; they were unarmed in no position to move and outnumbered five to two. It might very well count as a desperate situation.

"What now, Horace?" she asked, cursing the strangled quality of her voice.

"If you could have just let it go, Hermione," Slughorn said. "I've never wanted to hurt anyone. You're forcing me to do this."

He came closer.

"I'll be gentle. I'll only erase what is necessary so you won't remember this investigation."

"It won't help," Hermione said, mainly to gain time. "There are others involved. There are others who know what's going on."

"I'll have to take that risk," Slughorn said. "Now hold still. The more you move, the higher is the risk of you completely losing your mind."

**

Hermione closed her eyes. She had done this before. She'd been doing this since she was eleven years old, for crying out loud.

If you wanted to survive, there were some rules you had to follow:

Do not underestimate your opponent even if he's a spineless coward, an inexperienced criminal and an idiot who hires thugs.

Do not ever leave your back unprotected.

Do not lose your wand.

You can break those rule as long as you keep one thing in mind: Never go into battle without back-up.

She smiled a little despite the pain caused by the vicious hair-tugging.

She concentrated.

Beneath the patch of dress that looked like it was a mere hole where her heart had been ripped out, there was a little pouch, big enough to hold one single Galleon. It was old and worn. In its early days, the Galleon had been connected to a whole group of people. Now, it was connected only to two others.

Three was a magical number. It had been the greatest influence in Hermione's life. She had faith in the number and for what it stood.

Hermione sent her faith to the Galleon and used it as a channel to reach the other two.

"What is she doing?" One of the men asked.

The rest of them didn't have time to answer.

With a loud crack, two people appeared behind them, shouting spells even before Slughorn's thugs had time to comprehend that two Aurors dressed in gnome costumes had arrived.

Hermione twisted, escaping the already loosened grip of the man who held her hair and punched him in the face. His nose broke with a satisfying crunch. He staggered back, but she followed, lifted her boot and kicked him - heel first - in the groin. It was the only time that night when she regretted wearing flat shoes. The man crumbled to the floor, all colour drained from his face.

"I believe that's my wand," she said and took it from him.

She looked up to see Millicent beating up one of the other men and Ron and Harry restraining two more.

Where was Slughorn? Then she remembered that Harry and Ron didn't know what Slughorn had done and probably hadn't even thought of him as a danger.

That was when she heard a cry from farther down the street, and she started to run only to arrive seconds later at a scene that couldn't possibly be more bizarre.

Slughorn was lying on the ground in a puddle of water, bleeding from where he'd hit his head on the cobblestones. An elf - Hermione recognised her as one of Millicent's employees - had both of his legs disabled in a tight hug. Pixy held onto his right arm, her shirt torn and her left arm sticking out at an unnatural angle.

A third elf had his other arm, a fourth was sitting on him. And then there was Timi, standing close but out of reach, pointing Slughorn's own wand at his head.

"You killed them," Timi said over and over. "You killed them."

Slughorn was staring at Timi in shock. "After all the things I've done for you and your kind," he said.

Timi's hand shook even more.

Hermione walked toward them and came to a halt next to Timi.

"Help me," Slughorn said. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and he panted heavily, reminding Hermione of the scene she'd witnessed in the room upstairs.

"Come on, Timi," Hermione said. "Give me his wand. The Aurors are already here, and they'll take him with them. I'll make sure they'll find enough evidence to lock him up for a very long time."

"It is not enough," Timi said.

Hermione nodded. "I know. But it's something."

Timi lowered the wand. He looked lost and small. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Hermione gently took the wand from him. "Can you help Pix and take her to St. Mungo's? Can you make sure all other elves are alright?"

Timi looked at her with big, empty eyes. "I can do that," he said.

The elves were gone within seconds. She was alone with Slughorn.

"Why did you do it?" Hermione asked. Now it was her wand pointing at him.

Slughorn looked at her, motionless lying on his back in the dirt. He looked pathetic. "I didn't want to cause any harm," he said. "They were happier when things were the same as they've always been. You young people don't understand. It's too confusing for them. They are miserable. They don't want to make choices, and they don't want to be free. They like their life. They were grateful that I gave them back the security and protection of their masters."

Hermione wanted to break his nose. "Why did they die if they were happy? Why did they want to be free?"

"Don't you understand?" Slughorn asked. "There is pressure from all sides. Freed elves who are miserable themselves don't want to be alone. Places like Hogwarts only accept free elves these days. Some owners practically force their elves to take clothes so they will look good in the current society climate."

"Why did they die if they were so happy?" Hermione asked again. "Herman and Mitty asked for clothes even though they knew they were risking their lives. Fright probably died for the same reason. Curry killed herself because she couldn't live with the guilt. Libby died because she wanted to tell the truth. Is that your definition of happiness?"

"I helped," Slughorn said. His voice sounded whiny. "I did what I could when I was asked for assistance. It's what I do. I don't judge people for their beliefs or for the way they choose to live their lives. The elves took the vow because they wanted it."

"You manipulative bastard." Hermione spat on the ground. "The elves had no other choice; they weren't the ones who asked you for help. The masters asked you. Those who were afraid to lose their loyal, cheap servants, those who feared for some family secrets."

"People needed help. That was all." He looked as if he believed the dragon dung he was sprouting.

"And what did you get in return? Favours? Money? Contacts? Trophies for your Slug Club?"

Slughorn was silent.

**

The aftermath of the Halloween disaster was mind-boggling.

Hermione explained what happened to Harry and Ron who informed the head of the Aurors, who in turn ordered a full Auror investigation with Harry in charge. Isabel MacFarlan was still nowhere to be found. They took Slughorn with them, they took the four thugs with them, and they questioned everyone who had witnessed what happened, asking them to come to the Ministry within the next days for a thorough interrogation.

Back in the house, the party changed.

Lavender and Ginny arrived on scene - Lavender's gorgeous hair almost distracted from her red-painted nose and strapped on gnome-belly. Hermione wasn't clear on the details, but word spread, and more and more of Ron's and Lavender's guests moved to the new location.

Most of Millicent's guests had fled at the ruckus outside. Those who were still there didn't seem to be overly concerned about their anonymity. Many of them had taken off their masks, and Hermione recognised most of them.

The main room of the dark club was now filled with an odd mix of people.

Luna Lovegood, dressed as a bottle of pepper-up potion, sat next to a toga-clad Blaise Zabini on a couch, gesturing enthusiastically, holding a glass full of green, burning liquid. Blaise looked like he didn't know if he was supposed to be amused or terrified.

A circle of chattering elves taught a Halloween version of Peeves - who looked a lot like Seamus Finnegan - how to mix a melting margarita.

Dean Thomas and Adrian Pucey were both dressed as Unspeakables in identical costumes. They discussed something with big gestures, each of them with a frown on their face. They looked utterly serious. And they both were so drunk that they had lost their ability to stand a while ago, swaying on their bar stools like buoys in the ocean.

The gorgeous fairy Hermione had talked to earlier turned out to be Daphne Greengrass, who seemed to get along well with yet another gnome lady. George had the legs to pull off the costume.

Bill Weasley greeted his little brother who was dressed in black trousers and black wings and not much else. "Didn't you say you have to work tonight?" he asked.

"Yeah," Charlie said, unconcerned. "I lied."

Percy was talking to Andromeda Tonks - Hermione didn't try to figure out which party Andromeda had originally attended.

She drank from her butterbeer. When she looked back up, a slender woman in a red and gold corset came toward her. She wore leather trousers and leather gloves, and she still hid behind the mask that covered her face.

"Fifty points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger," the woman said as she passed Hermione. There was no French accent in her voice. While the voice itself was still unfamiliar, the inflections and undisguised Scottish accent weren't.

Hermione blinked, and her brain needed a moment to catch up. Then she choked on the large gulp of butterbeer she'd just taken and spat it out in one disgusting mess.

Once she was able to breathe again, the woman had already disappeared behind three chattering daisies that stood between Hermione and the exit. One of the daisies nudged a second one and pointed at Hermione. It was Parvati Patil.

Before the daisies could make their way through the crowd, Hermione left the room, went up to the second floor and walked out onto the balcony. The air was clean and crisp. She didn't begrudge them celebrating and having a good time - it was Halloween, after all - but she wasn't up to it. Not with at least nine dead elves. One of them was dead because of her actions.

Millicent joined her minutes later at the hip-high wall that was there to prevent people from falling down on the trimmed lawn that grew even though November had begun. Magic: keeping plants alive while letting people die.

They stood side by side. Hermione said, "Why are you doing it?"

"Doing what?" Millicent asked.

Hermione shrugged. "Everything. The elves. The parties."

"Do you expect some great speech about equality and basic rights?" Millicent flicked the cap of her beer down onto the lawn. "I'm doing it because someone has to."

"That's why you organise this?" Hermione gestured behind herself. "For every witch a willing wizard and the other way 'round?"

Millicent chuckled. "You still don't get it, do you? You were here the whole evening and haven't seen a thing."

"What was I supposed to see?"

"This isn't about wizards and witches. Honestly? Fuck them." Millicent took a swig from her ale. "They bring me good money, but do you know what they also bring?"

Hermione shook her head.

"They bring elves. You ask yourself why more and more elves ask me to help them be free when no one else achieved it."

"Yeah," Hermione said. "How do you do it?"

"I'm not doing a thing. That's the problem of all those Ministry idiots. They get witches and wizards around a big table and decide what's good for elves. Does that seem clever to you?"

"I don't know," Hermione said.

"Sure you do. Elves aren't little kids. They know what's good for them. But you know what they don't know? How to organise themselves. Elves don't have a community. With the exception of Hogwarts and the Ministry, they live alone or in very small groups and families. They can't talk to each other; they can't exchange ideas and experiences."

Hermione blinked. "That's all? You give them a room where they can talk?"

"That's all," Millicent said. "A room where they can talk."

Hermione thought about it. She'd seen all kinds of elves that night. From Hogwarts, from the Ministry, from Pure-blood families. There'd been free elves and house-elves, old and young. "That's..." Hermione was at a loss for words.

"I'm a genius, I know."

They were silent for quite a while. Then Millicent asked, "What about the masters like Nott and Beauparlants? What happens to them?"

"Nott must have known what she was doing," Hermione said. "She sent Herman first, and later, when he was already dead, she sent Libby. She must have been afraid that Libby would tell someone. The others? I don't know how much Slughorn told them. That's what the official investigation is for."

There were many questions left for Harry and his Aurors: How much did the Notts know? Where were the Beauparlants? Why had MacFarlan never made an effort to solve the crime? When had Slughorn started this insanity? How many elves had died? How many had taken the vow?

One question remained for Hermione: Who was the elf who'd been forced to receive Libby's vow after Curry had died?

Hermione thought she knew the answer. She just didn't know where the elf in question was.

Millicent looked sideways at Hermione. "Now what?"

Hermione shrugged. "Now I'm going to look for a friend of mine."

"A friend?" Millicent asked.

"A friend," Hermione said. "Her name is Mel."

Millicent stared into the black night. Her face was unreadable.

Hermione nudged her. "You could help me, what with your talents."

"I suppose I could," Millicent said.

**

The End


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